


Lacking Transport

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: #sexbotsherlock, AU:sci-fi, And won't just be a damn sex bot, Computer program Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Hnnnngh, John Loves Sherlock, John is a Saint, M/M, Protective Mycroft, Set in the future, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is like a fancy sex bot that is pissed at his creator, Technician John, Which is what we all want, more like a relationshipbot, ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mycroft's younger brother is tragically killed the company Mycroft works for let's him attempt to rebuild the genius...in the form of a companion program, a computer program/virtual reality mashup that has housewives everywhere pissed. </p><p>Things don't go as planned so they put out a call for a technician. After several aren't able to finish the job (screen blinks:reasons unknown) they put a call out to the general public. </p><p>John needs the money. He also needs Sherlock, he just doesn't know it yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call Me Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This one goes out to all the sci-fi freaks. To all the weirdos who grew up wishing for a virtual friend. To all of us who can't wait to get off this damn planet and as far away from reality as possible. This one goes out to my people. 
> 
> .....And of course to my dearest yarnjunkie, who is the only person I would attempt to resurrect from the dead for my own reasons...and should also be available in sexbot form, cause I ain't sharing!

John had heard tale of men who'd lost their families to them. There had even been a show about it a while back, and he thought he remembered some women marching against it. Even Harry, who wasn't any good at decision making herself warned him not to take the job. She said he could come stay with her just off planet. He signed up immediately. 

"Don't interact, don't use your own money, don't give it personal information, and for God's sake, don't interact with it outside the facility. These things were built to know what you desire, and this one is particularly...manipulative. Should take three days to a week, but if it takes longer we'll pay you for your time." The man with the salt and pepper hair said. 

"If it's such a problem why don't you delete it? Not that I don't need the job, but I was wondering." John replied, taking the clipboard and walking down the hallway. 

The man scrubbed his hand through his hair and looked suddenly more tired than John had first thought. He rubbed his temples and looked up, aggravation etched in his brow. 

"This one's sort of a pet project for the boss. Don't tell him I told you," The man stated, looking around like someone might be watching, "but it's based off his dead brother." 

John raised an eyebrow. All the programs he was familiar with were women. He'd always supposed that, like most things seemed to be, they were designed for rich straight men. That's at least the way they were marketed. He'd NEVER seen a male companion program on any of the commercials. 

"Bit morbid, I know. Just fix him, yeah?" The man replied. "Here's my card, you'll go through me for everything." 

John took the card and flipped it over in his hand. "Thank you Mr Lestrade, I'll get on it right away." 

"Call me Greg. And John," He added as John turned to leave, "be careful."  
John paused for a second, looking into the tired man's eyes. He was being truthful, he really thought John might be in some kind of danger. 

\-----

The camera flipped between Lestrade and...and... 

"Anthea, what's this army man's name again?" Mycroft drawled. 

"Watson, sir, John Watson. Formerly of the Northumberland Fusiliers." Anthea said, proffering an SD card but not looking up from her arm display. 

"What is he, dear?" Mycroft asked, slipping the card into his computer and pulling up the file. 

"The fourth, sir. We just had to get rid of Mr Trevor." She replied. 

"Ah, yes." Mycroft replied, looking at another monitor with a sort of fond desperation. "My brother does know how to ruin them, doesn't he?" 

"He does indeed, sir. Now if that will be all?" Anthea said. 

When no response came she looked up to find her boss maneuvering the 3D replica and looking far, far away. He'd do this sometimes, get lost in his thoughts. It was worse since the accident though. Worse since Sherlock died. He didn't know if he'd ever get over losing his brother, and more urgently, what he'd do if this new Sherlock still refused to see him. 

\-----

John entered the small room and sat in a comfortable chair in front of a large screen. He wrote the time and date on the clipboard then typed in the passcode and opened the program. He'd used something similar while he was in hospital in Afghanistan after the injury. He got a call from Harry and there had been a life size 3D representation of her. That was over a year ago though, and she'd never been able to afford a real high tech machine. This was going to be very different. 

Since this project was hush hush he hadn't gone through the regular training. He was to get a walk through with someone right about now. He checked his watch. They were late. 

He pulled up his arm display still getting used to the upgraded version Harry had given him when she and Clara split up. The small square of light that was the screen appeared above John's right wrist. The display still had a picture of Clara as the background and he clicked past it quickly to get to the game of solitaire he'd been playing on the transit line over. 

"Bit high tech for you, don't you think?" A deep voice said. 

John looked behind him, but there was nothing. 

"You have to turn the projector on." The voice murmured. 

"Sorry-" John began. 

"You should be. I can't believe they're wasting this kind of equipment on a washed up soldier." 

A smile passed across John's face. Small, and cruel. The computer took note. 

"My mistake, not washed up, invalided out. Press the small button on the right of the screen and hold it for three seconds." The voice said flatly. 

John scowled but did just that. The projector flickered on as he attempted to close his arm display. The bloody thing wouldn't work. He fumbled with it, pressing where he thought the buttons should be, and almost pissed himself when a strong finger ran along his wrist. It tapped quickly and the display disappeared. 

John looked up to find a perfectly rendered man in front of him. He was tall, imposingly so, and thin. His skin was pale and his eyes, though pale as well, held the ferocity of a hawk. John felt laid bare. He looked around once again to see that they were the only ones in the room. 

"I was, um," John said, clearing his throat and licking his lips nervously, "someone was supposed to train me." 

The man smiled like a predator and sat back on the desk. Well, seeing as he wasn't really whole, and was only a mirage of some sort, he didn't really sit. Did he float? He had mass, so John guessed he must-

"Someone was going to come train you to, what? Talk to me? Do you really think that's necessary, John?" The tall man...well, almost man said. 

"Yeah, wait! How did you know my name?" John asked angrily. 

He didn't know why he was angry. Maybe it was the fact that a computer was talking to him like they were friends, or that it knew so much about him. It was quite possibly the fact that the man before him was painfully beautiful, glossy curls catching the light, and he didn't want to find a man beautiful.

"The way I know everything about you, John, I watched. The way you hold yourself, the haircut, the fact that you're taking such a clandestine job with no prior knowledge in the field. Everything points to ex army and desperate for cash. Tell me, John, what did they say was wrong with me?" 

"I-I'm not sure I'm supposed to tell it...you." John replied. 

"I'm not an it, John. Just because I don't have a troublesome corporeal form doesn't mean I'm not real. The human body is simply a messy type of transport. Call me Sherlock." Sherlock purred. 

"That's an interesting name." John replied. 

"I'm an interesting man." Sherlock said, right corner of his mouth turning up. 

John took a deep breath and flipped to the second page of his work order. Sherlock watched him carefully, fingers steepled below his lips. It was going to be a long day.


	2. Would You Rather I Miss You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John talks with Sherlock for the first time.

It turned out that the first day was simply getting to know Sherlock, checking his reflexes and memory. It was a lot like John's old job in the army and the yearly exams given to his soldiers. He thought it was a little strange to be giving a physical to a computer program, but then again Sherlock was like no program he'd ever worked on. 

It was eerie how human Sherlock seemed. His heart beat, his eyes responded to light, his faced flushed when asked certain questions. After twenty or so minutes John forgot he wasn't real. 

Then the buzzer went off. It wasn't a horrible sound, just a soft chime, but it made John panic. He reached for his wallet on instinct and Sherlock smiled. 

"Use the card they gave you, it's got alloted minutes." Sherlock said calmly. 

Calm in the face of the fact that he would soon turn off. John wondered as he grabbed the card whether Sherlock's consciousness turned off as well. Was it like sleep, did he dream? Ridiculous questions, he knew, but questions he wanted answers to. He swiped the card and Sherlock's shimmering form solidified. 

"Almost lost me." Sherlock said with a look that was nearly sad. 

"What's it like?" John asked quietly. 

"I don't have any sense that time passed. It's not like sleeping, I don't slowly drift off or slowly wake. Sometimes I forget I've been gone." Sherlock replied, cheeks flushing at the last sentence. 

"Oh." John whispered, not sure what kind of response he was looking for, but suddenly realising that that wasn't it. 

"Would you rather I miss you?" Sherlock said with a sneer. "Wait patiently for your return? Seems to be a running theme with you humans. Not enough that I don't exist when you're not around, I have to despise my nonexistence." 

John sat back, stomach clenching at the fact that this program knew what he wanted when even he didn't. "No...I don't want that." 

Sherlock sighed and walked to the edge of the room while John busied himself with paperwork. Both men knew he was faking it, but neither felt it necessary to comment on. After a few minutes Sherlock turned around and walked back to the desk, taking the seat opposite John. 

"What's next on the list?" He asked. 

"I, um, need to ask about your childhood." John replied. 

"I take it Lestrade told you about my brother's attempt at outdoing doctor Frankenstein." Sherlock huffed. 

"Yes. I'm sorry..." John replied. 

"Sorry for what? You didn't know me before I died. You weren't there for my death. Why would it matter to you?" Sherlock asked, looking at John with those intelligent eyes. 

"Just thought it was the right thing to say, is all." John replied, trying not to let the hurt bleed into his voice. 

"Social convention." Sherlock huffed. "Didn't care for that even when I was alive." 

"How long, how long has it been?" John asked. 

"Two years." Sherlock replied. 

"How long have you, um, been like this?" John asked carefully. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Two years." 

"Oh." John said. 

"I wasn't gone long." Sherlock replied. 

"Seems like your brother really cares about you."

"Controlling more than caring." Sherlock scoffed. 

It was obvious to John by the way Sherlock was fidgeting that he wanted nothing more to do with this conversation. He picked the clipboard up and turned to the next page. 

"I'm supposed to ask you about Redbeard." He said. 

Sherlock stood abruptly, lips curled angrily. "This session is over." He growled. 

John didn't have the time to reply before Sherlock had reached and turned the projector off. Turned...himself off.


	3. A Pair Of Pushovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Greg for a pint, hoping to get a clearer picture of what his job is supposed to be.

John paced his small bedsit, running his fingers along the card Greg had given him over and over again. It was stupid to worry. He didn't even know Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't even real for God's sake. And yet... 

He pulled up his arm display and typed in the thirteen digit number. It rang twice and a gravely voice spoke. 

"John. How can I help you?" Greg asked. 

"I was wondering what else you can tell me about Sher-the program." John said nervously. 

Greg sighed loudly and John thought he was going to say no. 

"Please tell me you drink." Came his reply. 

"Um, recreationally." John said. 

"Meet me at The Fox and Hound in an hour." Greg said. 

"Okay. Cheers." John answered. 

He turned off the display and sat at his desk. His blog was open on his laptop. His therapist would be asking how it was going tomorrow. He really should write something. He really should. 

\-----

An hour and ten later a girl brought Greg and John matching lagers and they clinked glasses. John was nervous, more than he knew he should be. 

"So," Greg said, looking as tired as ever, "what do you want to know?" 

"What can you tell me about how the program was created. I know you said it was based off the boss' dead brother, but how does the science work?" John asked. 

"Don't really know specifics. It's supposedly like the cryo they're doing for people. They scan your brain after its been frozen and put it into a computer. The difference is that they aren't waiting for the technology to be created to transfer it to a human host. It's him in there. Creeps me out to be honest." Greg replied. 

"You say it's him. Did you know him before the accident?" John asked, taking a sip of his pint and fingering his keys. 

Greg sighed again. John wondered if he'd ever have a meeting with the man where he didn't make him sigh. 

"I used to work for the police. He consulted." 

"What kind of a consultant was he?" John asked, suddenly more curious than ever. 

"The kind that goes and gets themselves bloody killed!" Greg spit. 

John sat back in his seat shocked. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, that came out wrong. It's just...it wasn't too long ago. I'm still upset we lost him." Greg said, taking a drag off his ecig and a sip of his pint. 

"But if what you say is true, you didn't lose him, not really." John said, hoping for a better reaction than the last. 

"I'm not allowed to meet with him. His brother holds me accountable for his death. It happened on a case." Greg replied, looking down at the table and playing with a napkin. 

"But he let's you work for him?" John asked quietly. 

"It's complicated." Greg said. 

John decided to go in a different direction. Greg looked like he was ready to shut down the conversation, and there were still things he wanted to know. 

"What am I supposed to do? I know you said you need me to fix him, but what's wrong seems a bit vague. It just looks like a load of diagnostics and personal questions." John said. 

"I honestly don't know, John. Mycroft, the boss, keeps talking about making progress with Sherlock. He seems to think he can talk his brother into being happy with the way things are. They're developing a mobile projector, but it might not be ready until next year. The boss has been going on and on about it like it might be the solution to Sherlock's 'problem'." Greg said. 

John set his pint down and stared quizzically at Greg. "A year? Am I supposed to work with him for a year? You said the job should be three days to a week! What the hell is this year business?" 

"Well that's about as long as they last, a week. The technicians get riled up by Sherlock and they quit. Well, except the last one. He was a real piece of work. Convinced Sherlock he loved him, sick son of a bitch. A lot went on that I wasn't okay with." Greg said. 

"How long was he around?" John asked. 

"Almost a year." Greg replied. 

"But that's," John said, counting in his head, "That's eleven months he didn't have anyone to talk to." 

"It's not like he noticed." Greg said. 

That didn't sit well with John. "And that's supposed to make it okay? Look, I'm not feeling so great about this job." 

Greg's eyes widened. "John. John, give it a few more days. He seems to like you." 

"How would you know if he likes me?" John asked. 

"He said so. Well, he said you were less dull than the rest of us." Greg said. 

"I thought you didn't get to see him." John said, once again confused. 

"No, I said I don't get to meet with him. We email a lot. I access his from home three times a week. He mostly complains about being bored, but he did that when he was alive too. I've got a friend still on the force that feeds me cold case files. It keeps him fairly busy." Greg said. 

John smiled and laughed. 

"What?" Greg asked. 

"You told me not to access him outside the facility. You told me he was manipulative." John said, shaking his head. 

Greg threw up his arms. "Well he IS! How do you think I got caught up in this mess?" 

"I think I might be caught up too." John said honestly. 

Greg hanged his head and chuckled. 

"The two of us, a pair of pushovers." He said. 

John drank the rest of his pint in lieu of agreement.


	4. It's About What I Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to work. Sherlock explains what his role is to be. Mycroft gets a surprise...

John hobbled into work the next morning, his anxiety making his limp worsen. He hated that he looked broken, clumsy. He slipped his badge across the door and then pressed his thumb to the cold glass plate. The door opened with a soft metallic sound and he walked in. 

The hallway seemed cold, but John wasn't sure if it really was, or if it was just the fluorescent lights. He nodded to the security guard and made his way to his workroom. The door was unlocked but he knocked anyway, not wanting to disturb anyone who might be inside. 

When there was no response he entered. The room was dark, and as he turned the lights on he almost expected Sherlock to appear at the desk. He sat in his chair and turned the computer on, taking his clipboard and marking the date and time. He switched on the projector and waited nervously as the lights flickered. 

Sherlock appeared in the corner, leaning against the wall and looking disinterested. John suddenly found himself unable to breathe. The way his eyes were shadowed and his curls were falling across his brow. The way he looked at the far wall instead of John. The impossibly tight plum shirt and tailored trousers. All these things caused John pause. 

Sherlock moved after a second, coming to the desk and leaning over John to type something into the computer. He smelled woodsy and John wondered how he could possibly smell like anything at all. The computer screen loaded and five pictures appeared. John sat back abruptly as he stared down at what had to be crime scene photos. 

Sherlock leaned against the desk, hands gripping the edge and appraised John. 

"Cause of death, doctor?" He said, voice seeming to rumble from someplace dark. 

John looked up at him, eyes wide and worried. Sherlock simply raised one eyebrow above his pale eyes and John looked back at the screen. He scrolled through the photos and read the captions below. 

"Could be accidental suffocation." He said at length. 

"But..." Sherlock said, left side of his lips quirking up. 

"But the rooms all wrong. If she'd suffocated the bed would be set up differently. The petechiae hemorrhaging is consistent, but this didn't come across by accident." John said. 

"Yes. It was set up to look like auto erotic asphyxiation, but she was murdered by her lover." Sherlock replied. 

He bent over again and John could feel the heat radiating from his skin. When Sherlock stood there were six new crime scene photos. 

"Next." Sherlock said. 

John sat up and scrolled through the new list, studying the bodies carefully. He should have been sickened by the gruesome scene, but that part of his brain had been overridden a long time ago. Instead of two murder victims he saw flesh and bone. A puzzle. 'One of these things is not like the others', the voice in his head sang. 

"There's no way they could have both got up there. Even if the stronger one hanged the first and then attempted to hang himself, he wouldn't have the upper body strength to do it. Another murder." John said calmly. 

"Did you know your hand tremor goes away when you see dead bodies?" Sherlock asked. 

John scowled and looked down at his hand to find it was true. He slipped it quickly onto his lap. 

"I'd hazard your limp goes away when you feel threatened. Psychosomatic, as you well know." Sherlock added. 

John breathed deeply. "What do you want?" 

"It's not about what I want," Sherlock said with a grin, "it's about what I need." 

John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Alright, what do you NEED?" 

"An assistant. I think you'll do. My flat's on the top floor. I'll see that my brother moves you in right away. You'd best go pack your bags." Sherlock replied. 

"I'm moving in? To what, your old place? You don't even know me." John said, shock apparent on his face. 

"I know enough. Now go take your lunch break." Sherlock said. 

John got up and went to turn off the computer. A shock went through him as Sherlock stilled his hand. 

"Send my brother in." He said. 

John swallowed and nodded, waiting for Sherlock's hand to leave his. Sherlock grinned wickedly and dragged his fingers up John arm as he turned. John suppressed a chill. Sherlock noticed. 

\-----

Anthea walked into the room and cleared her throat. "Your brother wants to see you." 

Mycroft spun and stood immediately. "He what?" 

"That army fellow just stopped in. Said Sherlock wants to see you." She replied. 

Mycroft's face darkened and he walked from the room.


	5. And Who Would I Trust?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks if John can move in. John talks with his therapist.

Mycroft opened the door to see his brother at work on the computer. He was doing three things at once but was aware enough to hear Mycroft come in. He turned off the screen and spun around to frown at the taller man. His brother, well his dead body's brother. 

"Sherlock." Mycroft said calmly. 

"No. You don't get to call me that." Sherlock sneered. "I think you should call me Sherlock two." 

Mycroft sighed and pulled at his right sleeve. "That's ridiculous. If this is about the small matter of-" 

"Small matter?" Sherlock hollered. "I DIED, MYCROFT! I'd hardly say it was a SMALL MATTER." 

Mycroft looked as though he'd been hit for a moment before he was able to school his face. 

"What was I supposed to do, Sherlock? Hmm? Let you stay dead? Mummy never would have stood for it." He replied. 

"Well it wasn't her choice. I told you I didn't want this. I was very clear about the whole thing. And now, because you can't get around the matter that this is as of yet illegal, you keep me hostage. How much longer do I have to stay here day in and day out with no one to talk to but staff?" Sherlock asked, eyes glinting and slipping towards a lighter shade of silver. 

"I told you that you could live in the penthouse with me. There's plenty of room, and we could-" Mycroft began, voice level and trying not to plead. 

"We could be best friends? Would you, please brother dear? Would you be my bestest friend?" Sherlock said in a mocking tone. 

Mycroft turned around and walked to the far wall of the room. Sherlock picked at his nails and waited for his response. 

"I know the timing is...unfortunate, but I couldn't just leave you in a cryo tank until the legislation went through. I couldn't leave you there while we looked for a body for you. There's simply no other way." Mycroft said at last. 

"You want me to stay in the penthouse with you so that your guards can watch me. What if someone else were to take that job?" Sherlock asked carefully. 

"And who would I trust?" Mycroft asked, stalking back across the room. 

Sherlock smiled. "Why, the person you already trust with my care. The person you pay to spy on me. John." 

\-----

Across town John was standing in front of his closet looking at his clothes. Sherlock had told him to pack, but Greg had said nothing about this, so he knew it was a long shot. It would be nice to get out of this cramped space, though. Sometimes it made him feel as though he couldn't breathe. 

He jumped when his arm display went off. Fuck. He was late for his meeting with his therapist. He sat on the bed and answered. 

"Sorry." He said. 

"It's alright, John. Is everything okay?" His therapist asked. 

He hated that question. Just bloody hated it. When things were okay he didn't want to be asked and when things weren't he wouldn't answer truthfully. 

"Yes, fine. Just got a little busy with work." He said. 

"Would you like to take our meeting like this?" She asked. 

"Might as well."

"So tell me about the new job, John. How are the coworkers? How's the pay? Had any panic attacks?"

John sighed deeply before speaking. Sometimes he wanted to tell her to mind her own fucking business. 

"One coworker, Greg. He's a good guy. Bit run down, but aren't we all? The pay's good." He said quickly. 

"And no panic attacks?" She asked. 

"No." He bit out. 

"And how's your blog going?" 

John cleared his throat and looked at his abandoned computer. 

\-----

"You don't know this man. What makes you think this is a good idea? What makes you even think he'd say yes?" Mycroft asked. 

"He already said yes. I know as much as you do about him, and it's enough to be going on. You've taken almost everything from me, give me this." Sherlock replied. 

Mycroft looked uncertain for a moment and then nodded. Sherlock grinned. 

"He can move into your flat. Your things are still there. If anything goes wrong, if either of you put your status in jeopardy I will cut him loose." Mycroft replied. 

"Yes, mummy." Sherlock said quietly. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and left the room. 

"And Mycroft." Sherlock said. 

Mycroft turned and walked back to the doorway. 

"I want Lestrade back." Sherlock added. 

"Out of the question!" Mycroft growled. 

Sherlock wasn't even paying attention anymore, knowing Mycroft's answer by heart. He was tapping away at the computer, already miles away in his own mind. 

\-----

John was peeling an apple ten minutes after getting off the phone with his therapist when his email dinged. He opened the new message to see it was from Sherlock. 

'You may move in at once. There will be a key code for you at the front desk. They will give you all the information you need. Turn me on once you are settled in the second bedroom. SH'


	6. Can't Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves in.

John packed his things, filling two duffle bags and a large cardboard box, and hailed a cab. He played around on his arm display on the way over, notifying the company that rented to him that he moved out. He didn't know if he'd get some of his rent back, but he didn't really care. The place was like a prison at this point and he was glad to be leaving it behind. He texted Greg to tell him that he was moving onto the facility and wondered absently if he should be more nervous than he was. 

Moving had never been stressful for John. His family had moved around a lot, and then he went away to university and after that the army. If there was one thing he was really good at it was starting over. He was trained to live on almost no money, rationing what he could and never complaining. He'd seen men struggle when they came into the army, trying to deal with the change of pace. So much of civilian life dealt with excess that when you were forced to live on what you actually needed, and sometimes only what you could carry, your view of reality shifted. 

One of the hardest things about coming back was that he had to keep his mouth shut when those around him wasted. Living with Harry, who he knew would leave food out to spoil and buy too much shampoo, would have been hell. It was bad enough when he had to stay with her for a few months before deployment. He was glad he wouldn't have to worry about having to move back with her...if this trial went well. 

The cab pulled up outside the tall building, tires splashing in a puddle, and the cabbie got out to help him with the boot. He payed the woman and carried the large box to the front door with the duffles over his shoulder. The door opened and a security guard John had seen a few times before helped him in. 

"Dr Watson. You'll be on floor 21, the whole level is owned by the Holmes'. The entry to the floor is this key and the code 1bbaker. I'll help you with your things and walk you through it the first time." The tall woman with black hair said. 

"Thanks, I'll get the box and one of the duffles if you'll get the other and the door." John replied. 

She nodded and walked to the elevator, sliding her badge and stepping close for the retinal scan. John stood next to her when she motioned for him to, and after a second of bright light the door opened. They walked into the small cubicle and the security guard pressed the button for floor 21.

"How long have you worked here?" John asked, partially to fill the time and partially because he actually wanted to know. 

She smiled for a second before speaking. "I knew him." 

John fiddled with his bag. "What was he like?" 

"You know Mr Sherlock, always a bit strange. Never bothered me much though. The trick with him was to do as he said. Never had the time for questions.  Always on a schedule, he was." She said honestly. 

"So he wasn't a hard boss?" John asked. 

She studied him for a moment before replying. "He wasn't my boss, sir. Wasn't anyone's as far as I knew. He was just part of the building, like a leaky faucet always needing to be seen to. You help him when he asks and leave him be when he doesn't. You'll do fine." 

The door slid open with a ding and the woman lead John into a small room with a large door. Next to it was a slot for a key and a keypad. She typed in the pass code and turned the key in the lock. The door opened with a loud creak and she stepped aside. John took a hesitant step forward and slid his hand along the inside wall to locate the lightswitch. 

What he found when the light came on was not what he'd expected. He nodded to his companion and she set down the duffle bag and got back into the elevator. When John was finally alone he walked into what was to be his new home. It was like going into the past. 

The color pallete was warm, rust oranges and dark greens, and blues he hadn't seen in an age. Beyond that was the architecture. There was crown molding around the whole room and the doorways had actual wooden doors. He knocked on one just to see and felt a smile spread across his face. Wood. Not particle board or metal like you might see in the rest of the buildings in town, well in country, but hard wood. Even the lighting fixtures were wrong. Well, not wrong, different. Sconces and shades meant that the light was filtered and soft. 

He walked in past the second set of doors and into a sitting room. There was a fireplace on the far wall and an animal head above it. He went to look and found that it indeed was a working fireplace, something which he never thought he'd be able to afford. He suddenly felt tempted to start a fire, just to see one going in real life. There had been a cap on fires six or so years ago, only one allowed per household per year, so it was impossible to find lodgings who hadn't renovated them away. 

He turned and peered out the window. It was still light outside and the street below was modern day Earth London. The transit lines took up most of the road, but a cab could be seen here and there. He remembered when he was a child and they still allowed personal use cars inside city limits. There was a certain freedom to controlling where you went that he missed. Then again he was a child at the time, so the freedom was imagined or at best vicarious. 

He walked around the flat, flicking on lights and moving boxes. There were papers and scientific equipment stacked everywhere, but not a mote of dust to be seen. The room hadn't been lived in, but was obviously not abandoned. There was a desk next to the telly with a computer and a projector. John switched the computer on and opened the companion program. He flicked on the projector and went to put on a kettle for tea. 

He was looking through his things for his tea when Sherlock spoke. 

"There's some in the cabinet above the sink. Earl Grey if I'm not mistaken. Mrs Hudson said she'd stock us with some." He said. 

John turned to find Sherlock walking towards the sofa, silk robe giving him a relaxed air. John stared for a second before he realised why. He'd only seen Sherlock in his one outfit. He didn't know he could change. He looked up to find Sherlock staring at him. Into him, it seemed. 

"Mycroft programmed in a few more details than the usual models get. I get an amalgamation of my personal clothes while the other programs get designer lingerie. I'd say it's a fairly good trade off as I'm much to thin for a nice bustier." Sherlock purred. 

He said it with such a straight face that it took John a second to understand that he was trying to make a joke. He shrugged slightly and looked away. 

"I think you could at least pull off a demi cup." John replied. 

Sherlock smirked. "Noted." 

John found the tea and a cup just as the kettle boiled. He switched it off and poured the hot water over the tea bag. 

"I'd like one as well." Sherlock said with a matter of fact air. 

John looked confused but poured him one none the less. He found a roll of chocolate digestives and a tray and brought everything to the table in front of the couch. He sat in a comfortable high back chair and held his cup to his lips. Sherlock picked his up and looked into it. 

"If you're waiting to see how I'm able to drink you'll be disappointed." Sherlock said, feeling John's stare. 

"Sorry." John replied, looking away and taking a sip of his tea before it had properly cooled. He winced when it burned his tongue. 

"It's the memory. The memory of tea that, erm, that's comforting." Sherlock said after a while. 

John looked up and nodded. He wasn't sure what he should say. He had learned a little of Sherlock's 'physiology' the day before, but he knew there was a lot he still didn't understand. He figured it would take a long time for him to learn all of it, but he wanted to know. He still didn't feel it was his place to ask. 

"The illusion of my touch has to do with specially focused sound waves." Sherlock said after a few minutes. 

John looked up and Sherlock held the tea aloft in his hand. 

"I don't have mass as you think of it. I'm not solid. It's more like an outward push coming from my entire form. In the early days companion programs weren't companions at all. The first prototype was built for the army. It was basically a moving wall of sound. High tech speakers would direct it so that the force was equal to something about as solid as hard wood. They used them as blast shields. The idea that the technology could be interacted with didn't come for years. That's how it works, though, first military, then household." Sherlock said. 

"But you can feel. You have reflexes." John said, setting his cup down and sitting up to watch Sherlock. 

"Yes, I can feel. I can taste as well, but it's not like your sense of taste. It's an illusion. My system has been programed to send feedback to me when something with certain chemical thumbprints touches the area designated as my mouth. It's not real." Sherlock said with a huff. 

John sat back and smiled. This took Sherlock by surprise and he crossed his arms defensively. 

"Is that funny to you?" He asked.

John's smile vanished. "No. No, it's just. Well, that's all the human brain really is. One big circuit board. It's just one part of the brain telling another part of the brain how to interpret data. We're not so different." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Now you're just anthropamorphising me." 

John shrugged and picked his coffee back up. 

"So you don't drink?" He asked. 

Sherlock sighed. "Don't have a stomach. Maybe the next generation. Can't wait." He said sarcastically. 

John chuckled and sipped his tea.


	7. Occam's Razor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are settling in quite fine. I secretly think that's why Mycroft decides to interrupt. Bastard.

After John had drank the last of his tea he set the cup down and turned to where Sherlock lay on the couch facing away from him. The mental pull to reach out and touch Sherlock dug into him. He cleared his throat instead, and nervously played with the hem of his jeans. Sherlock turned and looked up at him, eyes drifting towards a softer shade of blue. 

"Have you got everything put away?" He asked. 

"Is it strange? Being back here. I take it you lived here before...before you died." John said quietly, hoping that if he kept his voice low the question wouldn't seem like so much of an intrusion. 

Sherlock cocked his head and squeezed one eye shut. "Is this you asking, or Mycroft?" 

"Me." John answered truthfully. 

"Then, yes. It is. It's like living in some kind of parallel dimension. I can feel London's heart beating out that window, but I can't experience it. I may be in my own home, but that doesn't mean I'm not a prisoner." Sherlock replied. 

John felt sick, chest clinching. He hadn't thought of it like that. He was still getting used to the idea of Sherlock being real, well almost, and the idea that he would feel emotions so deeply surprised him. 

"Did you think I didn't quite grasp the idea of my quasi existence?" Sherlock scoffed. 

"I don't know. I just thought...well I'm still getting used to this." John said. 

"I suppose the reason for you running supposed diagnostics on me was to give you the impression that I wasn't fully cognisant. Much easier for Mycroft to convince you to spy on me if I didn't grasp the idea. He wants me to appear as a child to you. Something that needs guidance. That's always how he saw me. The perpetual child. Fit into his reality quite well."

"So why am I here, really? Is it to spy on you, as you said? Because as far as I can see you aren't broken." 

"Oh, John, don't be naive. I'm incredibly broken. The thing is, I'm not more broken than I was when I was alive." Sherlock said bitterly. "Suppose now he thinks than since he has me under lock and key he can fix me." 

"You don't seem broken to me. Rude, perhaps, demanding, but not broken." John said with a small smile. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I've taken a liking to you and you have to go and insult me." 

"You have, then? Taken a liking to me?" John asked, feeling himself flush. 

"You are singularly interesting, John Watson. But I have to remind you that, though I may be paid for by the hour, I am not that kind of girl." Sherlock said with a playful smile. 

"Christ! I didn't mean! I just meant, you like me." John said, blushing further and staring at his feet. 

"My tea's gone cold. Make me another?" Sherlock asked instead of a response. 

John sighed and stood up. "You can make one yourself, you know." He said as he filled the kettle. 

"And miss a chance to watch you be so perfectly domestic? Rather not." Sherlock replied. 

John shook his head. "If I didn't know better I'd think you were flirting with me." 

John thought he heard Sherlock mumble 'Occam's razor'. But he wasn't sure. 

He flicked on the kettle and was walking back to the sitting room when his arm display buzzed. He turned on the screen to see a video of a posh man with a great frown. He pushed the answer button and the eyes caught hold of his. He hadn't felt that focused a scrutiny since Sherlock looked him over for the first time. 

"John Watson. Pleasure, I'm sure. I need you in my office. Turn off the program when you leave the flat. No idea what he might get up to without supervision." The man said. 

"Sorry, who are you?" John asked, more than a bit miffed at the idea that he was some kind of chaperone. 

"Mycroft Holmes." The man said before clicking off. 

John turned with a look of shock on his face to see Sherlock reaching for the projector's power button. 

"Don't!" He said with a little more enthusiasm than he wanted. 

Sherlock scowled. "It's not like I'll notice I'm gone." He said dryly. 

"That's not the point." John said, finding himself more angry than he had been in a very, very long time. 

Sherlock's hand stilled. "What is the point then?" 

"That's it's not his bloody place to be telling you what to do!" John effused. 

"I'm starting to like you more and more. And what if he fires you when he finds out you left me on?" Sherlock asked, hand now settling away from the button and on his hip. 

"Then I'll find another job." John said, sounding suddenly defeated, as if he saw this as his inevitable path. 

"And what about a place to live?" Sherlock said quietly. 

"Suppose I'd have to move in with my sister." 

"Nonsense. She's a wreck. I'll turn myself off and you'll stay. We'll think of a way around this 'supervision' business soon enough. Go." Sherlock said, reaching back up and pressing the button before John had time to ague. 

And there John was, standing in the middle of a now empty room, wondering exactly how much of a fool he was for feeling the way he did. He'd done exactly what they all said he would. He'd fallen for a bloody machine. He wanted to know if all the programs were like this. Did they make the people running them feel so easily accepted? 

Maybe this was what the whole problem with the programs was, their inherent acceptance. Why go out and find a real friend, a real lover, when someone so perfect for you could be waiting at home. It was like the fifties wife that everyone pretended was happy. Then again, Sherlock wasn't exactly waiting for him with pipe, paper and slippers. As far as he could see, the acceptance had nothing to do with agreeability. 

He went to the couch and sat for a moment with Sherlock's abandoned cup in his hands. It was cold, as he had said, but he couldn't help but feel like Sherlock had left a fraction of himself behind on it. 

When John looked up he saw he had been daydreaming for about fifteen minutes. Tha kettle had boiled dry. Best get this over with. He brought the cup to the sink and turned the kettle off, then slipped his keycard in his pocket and turned off the lights. He took one last look around before leaving the flat all together.


	8. It's Easy To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft's meeting goes differently than Mycroft planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging with me, guys. Even with a shoulder injury and a visual migraine I still felt guilty for not writing. Doing much better now, so I'm back on the horse.

John walked out of the flat and got into the elevator. He looked up when the security camera seemed to be tracking his movements, watching as he paced back and forth. He looked into it as it adjusted, focusing on his face and making a strange whir. He remembered when he'd first talked to Greg, and how he'd looked around suspiciously. He'd wondered if they were being watched. 

The elevator dinged and the doors opened as John's stomach clenched at the idea. He walked out and made his way to the front desk. After he was pointed in the right direction he strode to what sincerely felt like his execution.

There was a young woman at the front desk tapping away on her arm display. He stood for a while while she let Mycroft know he was there, not looking up for longer than a second. 

"So...You know I'm John. What's your name?"

The woman looked up at him, face blank. "Hmm. Anthea." 

The way she said it gave John the impression she'd simply decided on it at the last second. 

"Is that your real name?" He asked. 

She smiled and looked at him with pity. "No." 

Before John had to think of something to say the door behind her opened and a tall man with ginger hair and a frown came out. He looked more like a banker than someone who worked for a tech company, three piece suit and expensive shoes. John suddenly felt underdressed. The man motioned for him to come in. 

"John Watson, formerly of the Northumberland Fusiliers. What made you take a job with us?" The man asked. 

If John had to put a word to his facial expression it would have been suspicious. 

"I needed the money." John answered. 

"Good. I'd like you to take on a side job. I'll pay you the same wage and you can live in the flat upstairs free of rent."

John shook his head. "I don't like where this is going." 

"As you said, you need money. I need information, information which you could provide." Mycroft said. 

"If you're going to ask me to spy on your brother the answer is no." John said firmly. 

"You're already doing your fair share of spying, doctor Watson. What is a few more hours a day?"

John felt his heart beginning to race. He was very close to losing it with this arsehole. 

"At least when we're in the office Sherlock knows you're the one asking the questions. I won't invade his privacy. I won't compromise our-" John began. 

"Your what?" Mycroft asked, suddenly moving forward and getting into John's personal space. "Your friendship? Things are moving along quickly with you two. Earlier this week you thought he was simply a program, now you think he's real. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" 

"He's more real than you are! Prancing around like some king, trying to scare me. Don't think I can't see through it all. You want him for yourself. You want to be his only friend. Maybe he'll actually talk to you once you stop acting like he's a robot. Maybe he could stand to look at you if you gave him a little respect." John seethed. 

This seemed to catch Mycroft off guard. Perhaps he didn't think John would see through his charade. Perhaps he didn't even know his own intentions. His lip curled for a second before his face became a mask of indifference once again. 

"I do care for him. I also have the peace of mind to care about his safety. If you put him at risk you will regret it. You're dismissed." Mycroft said, pulling at his shirt cuffs and sitting at his desk. 

John stood there for a moment, breathing hard, before Mycroft spoke again. 

"Is there something you'd like to say, or are you just going to stand there?" Mycroft asked finally. 

"I'm going to leave him on." John said, "I'm going to leave him on all the time." 

"Out of the question." Mycroft replied shortly. 

"What are you going to do? Hmm? Fire me? You need me." John said, feeling confident. 

Mycroft's face broke and he huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes. "No wonder you two get along, you're just as stubborn. Fine. But if he gets in trouble-" 

"I'll regret it, yeah, got that bit." John said. 

Mycroft crossed his arms and scowled at him. John nodded and left the room. The assistant was still at her desk, eyes glued to her arm display. John felt confident after what he considered to be a win for team Sherlock, so he decided to try his luck. 

"Do you ever get any time off?" He asked. 

"Oh, loads." She replied with a smile, albeit a smile to her screen. 

When John didn't move she looked up at him. "Bye." 

John sighed and walked back down the hallway to the elevator. Worth a try. 

\-----

When John got to the flat he turned on a few lights and refilled the kettle, switched it on and walked to the computer. He opened the program and turned on the projector. Sherlock materialised next to him and John jumped. 

"Christ, don't sneak up on me like that." He said. 

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Apologies." 

John snorted and went to sit in his chair. Well, what he now considered to be his chair. Sherlock walked to the window and looked out. 

"How did the meeting go?" He asked at length. 

"He tried to frighten me. Does he do that to everyone?" John asked. 

"Yes. I take it you didn't get fired."

"No. We negotiated." John said calmly. 

Sherlock spun and looked down at him. "No one negotiates with my brother." 

"Well, I did. I think he underestimates how much I know he needs me. You can be left on all the time now." John said. 

Sherlock squinted for a moment. "It's easy to do. Underestimate you." 

"Oi! Watch it!" John said defensively. 

Sherlock smiled. "It was a compliment." 

"Yeah, yeah." John said. "Want tea?" 

Sherlock hummed agreement and went to flop down on the sofa.

When the tea was made John brought the tray to the sitting room and set it down. He took his seat and Sherlock turned over and sat up. 

"Thank you." Sherlock said quietly, as if he was embarrassed to utter the statement. 

John smiled and blew on his tea. "Anytime."


	9. A Lot More Than Looking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John settle into their first evening together.

John knew the thank you was for more than just the tea. As he sat reading his book there was a constant warmth in his belly. He didn't think about his and Sherlock's immediate connection. He didn't think about how short a period it had been before he moved in. He didn't think about how perfectly normal it felt to sit here reading with Sherlock puttering around in the kitchen. 

A few hours later when John felt his stomach start to protest from lack of food he stood up and walked to the fridge. Sherlock was at the table, looking at something through a microscope and humming to himself. John wanted to reach out a hand and touch the back of his neck where the curls rested against his skin. He didn't. 

"Think I'm going to order delivery." He said after clearing his throat. 

Sherlock looked up at him and sat back in the seat. "Not enough in the fridge? I asked Mrs Hudson to pack it-" 

"No, there's plenty I'm just-I'm just knackered. Do you want Chinese?" John asked. 

Sherlock's face paled slightly. John realised his mistake and tried to fix it quickly. 

"You don't have to eat it. I just-" He began. 

"Chinese is good. I know a place around the corner if you don't mind walking." Sherlock replied quickly. 

"Yeah, that's, that's a good idea."

John was happy not to get his head bit off. It was bad enough to forget that Sherlock had told him he can't eat, but then to say something as stupid as 'you don't have to' was just...inconsiderate. Sherlock walked to the computer and typed for a second before giving John a number to call. John typed the number into his wrist display and waited as it started to ring. 

"Canton house, delivery or takeaway?" The woman on the other side of the line said. 

John was about to speak when Sherlock's voice came from over his shoulder. He spoke quickly in what was obviously not English, saying his own name once, what for John didn't know, and then reached his arm around to ring off. John shivered as his fingers touched the skin of his wrist, dragging across the soft hair. And then Sherlock was gone from his side and walking to the window. 

"I ordered you the chow mien and the cashew chicken, they're both quite good. The order is under my name. Should be ready by the time you get there. Address is in your gps." Sherlock said quickly. 

"Thanks." John said, thinking he sounded a little pitiful and breathless. 

Sherlock didn't seem to notice, still staring out the window, hand clenching wrist behind his back. John wanted to say something before he left, if only to make sure Sherlock was okay, but he refrained. He instead grabbed his coat, key and wallet and walked out the door. 

When the door clicked closed Sherlock spun around, cursing himself, fists clenched. What was he doing? What in bloody hell was he doing? This was how it started with Victor. He'd never been able to keep his hands to himself, always venturing into personal space like it was nothing, and here Sherlock was mirroring his actions. He was currently doing everything that Victor did to trick him into falling for him. 

Sure with Victor it had taken months, almost a year, for him to get sucked into a physical relationship, but things were moving along much too quickly with John. 

He knew why. Whereas Victor had made a point of reminding him of the fact that he wasn't human, almost throwing it in his face at every turn (like his brother), John had actually forgot that he wasn't. It hadn't been the first time either. John, it seemed, had accepted Sherlock so fully that the fact that he wasn't human had simply slipped his mind. 

It definitely wasn't that John was stupid. He understood that Sherlock was...well, other than, but he seemed to not care. He saw Sherlock as Sherlock, even from their first hour together, not Sherlock: the program. Not companion program: SH. Not 'almost Sherlock'. 

And then John had felt bad for forgetting, he could see it on the man's face. He recognized his error and was afraid it would offend Sherlock. As though being thought of as human was disgusting-oh. Oh, no. Their first meeting, their first day together Sherlock had referred to humans in a bad light. That must be it. John thought he hated humans. 

He did, of course, it's just that like many of his idiosyncrasies this was something he felt long before he was no longer human. He hated and despised humanity most of his life in fact. It wasn't the individual people, per se, although ninety-nine percent of them were troublesome, it was humanity as a whole. Humanity as a group was a cruel blundering monster, barely kept in line by its own ridiculous rules. Humanity was a scourge, destroying earth and grasping blindly at the stars. Humanity was a pest. 

But John. John was humanity's best. Just like Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Not it's brightest, not in the least, but definitively its best. Those three lived up the the word when used as the more obscure noun, as to be humane; bestowing kindness; benevolence. Even he, being among humanity's brightest, couldn't claim those traits. 

He'd thought for the longest time that he was being punished, by some god for something unknown, by being surrounded by stupidity. And yet now, as the third seemed drawn to him he wondered if maybe his luck had changed. 

He shook his head. Luck. Gods. Humanity. He was waxing poetic. Pointless endeavor. Best to get back to work. He needed to stop touching John, stop speaking for him, stop bloody flirting. 

At that moment John walked back through the door and Sherlock knew he was going to lose the battle. John was beaming, nose and tips of his ears pink from the cold. John smiling was an almost spiritual experience. Bloody hell. 

"How did you pay for the food? Did you call after I went?" John asked, setting his cane by the door and walking carefully to lay the bags on the table. 

Sherlock shook his head and moved to sit at the table while John fussed with the knot in the first bag. 

"I solved a case for them a while back. They had a cousin who was investing their money in illegal offshore interprises. I got their money back. They always feed me for free."

John stood for a second looking at Sherlock with amazement. Sherlock absolutely didn't feel anything akin to butterflies in his stomach. 

"So you were then? A proper private detective? Big cases and all?" John asked. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away from John's face. "Yes. Consulting detective. The Yard needed my help more often than not. Had several private clients." 

"So you used your methods, the looking at someone and knowing what they were thinking, to solve real cases? Brilliant!" John effused. 

"It's a lot more than looking, John, anyone can look, it's deduction. It's seeing where things connect. It's looking for the little clues to everyday actions. The corner of a sleeve, bit of shaving cream. It's the small things that matter." Sherlock said, eyes travelling back to John, voice becoming softer at the last few words. 

He was saying more than his words, and he knew it. John knew it too, Sherlock could tell by how he averted his eyes and cleared his throat. 

"Good. Good then.. Maybe someday you can show me how to, um, how to-" John began. 

"Deduce?" Sherlock asked, letting his voice drop. 

"Yeah, yeah that." John said weakly. 

Sherlock finally took the bags from John and undid the knots himself. He laid out the food, still steaming and got two cups for the tea they had included without him even asking. John sat opposite him at the table and they lived in a small bubble of comfortable silence for the next twenty minutes. 

John ate the food, humming in appreciation, and Sherlock sat close and just smelled it. He could taste the cashew on the back of his tongue with every breath drawn in. By the time John was done the tea in Sherlock's hand had long gone cold, and John was looking sleepy. He boxed up the rest of the food and slipped in into the fridge. 

"You were right about the food. Ever do any favors for an Italian place?" John teased. 

Sherlock simply grinned. He'd introduce him to Angelo's ravioli a different night. 

"Well, I'd better get to bed. I suppose you'll just, do whatever it is you do." John said, trailing off into uncertainty at the end. 

"I have a few experiments I want to run. I'll attempt to be quiet, but I can't make any promises." Sherlock said with a smile. 

John was about to turn away when Sherlock reached out and ran his thumb across his chin. John's eyes shot open and he looked almost frightened if not for the fact that they quickly made to slide shut. 

"Sweet and sour sauce." Sherlock said, touching his thumb to the tip of his tongue. 

John suppressed a shiver and nodded stupidly before turning and making his way to the bathroom. He was sure now that he was going to hell. Some special new hell for people who tried to shag robots. Fuck.


	10. That Poisoned Skin, That Deep Crevasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little painful. Okay, more than a little. We get a look not only into Sherlock's death, but into his relationship with Victor Trevor...if you don't like gore I will summarize it at the end for you in the chapter notes.

John wet the flannel under the tap and scrubbed the last of the sweet and sour sauce off his chin. He didn't know what was more embarrassing; the fact that it had probably been there for a while as he was talking and trying to come across as normal, or that fact that Sherlock had undoubtedly seen his reaction to the brief touch. He closed his eyes and cursed. It was probably due to the fact that he hadn't been touched beyond a handshake in over three months. Hard to get a date when you hate yourself. 

And he did. He hated everything he had become. He was useless now, completely redundant in every capacity. How could he do anything when he could barely even walk. How could he get a real job when his hand shook intermittently? How could he get a date when he couldn't smile? 

He had been smiling a lot now the he thought of it. He smiled for the first time while talking to Greg about Sherlock; when he realised how deeply ingrained he already was. He smiled a lot with Sherlock today. So much it hurt his face. How had he not noticed? 

The one thing he couldn't keep from noticing was the erection currently screaming for his attention. He scowled down at it, not willing to take himself in hand inside a shared living space. He brushed his teeth and threw some water over his face for good measure, then walked back towards the stairs. Sherlock was sat in the armchair facing him. 

"Suppose I'll see you in the morning." John said as he passed. 

Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile when he looked at John's crotch and John felt the heat of a flush spreading across his neck. He kept walking and didn't look back. He took the stairs as quickly as he could with his limp and managed to keep his hands out of his trousers until the door was closed. He undid the zip and pulled his jeans off clumsily on the way to the bed. He had his pants around his ankles a second later and was fisting his cock roughly. 

He wanted this to be over quick, needed to relax, but every time he felt himself getting closer he would think of Sherlock touching his skin and the pleasure would almost double. He hadn't been this turned on in years, so desperate for release his arm was shaking. His other hand moved down to his bollocks and pulled them gently, rubbing just behind them and starting to pant. 

He shut his eyes and tried to think of the way Sherlock's breath felt against his neck while he was ordering the Chinese, hot, soft, so damn close. The way his lips parted to take his thumb between them. The way they might look stretched around his cock. 

He ran his finger around his arsehole and pushed the tip in, thinking of Sherlock's tongue lapping at the sweet and sour sauce. Tasting him, licking at him, pushing into him. 

He clenched his jaw as he came, spurting come all over his own shirt and whimpering. He worked his cock with one hand, thrusting up into his fist, and swirled his finger as his arsehole tightened around it. He slowed down his strokes and worked gently at the head, pulling a few last drops of fluid from it to roll lazily over his fingers and down the side of his shaft. 

\-----

Sherlock was tapping furiously at the computer, breaking through system walls and safety precautions easily. He knew the system well, and he had a plan. Sherlock with a plan was a mean machine. At last he made it to the controls he needed. He typed in a few codes then got to work setting up what looked like a Rube Goldberg machine across the sitting room. 

He held his finger over the power button of the projector and finally started the reboot. Before he pressed the button he kicked a book from under a chair to his left. The chair fell and Sherlock held the button down. He shimmered and disappeared. 

The chair had knocked over a stool which in turn pushed over three books and sent another chair falling. This one held down and pressed the power button. Three seconds to turn him back on, but nine to trigger another reboot. He had to be quick, six seconds or less to move the chair. 

His body started to appear as he counted down in his head; six, five, his consciousness was there but his body wasn't yet solid, four, three, he could move across the room but still passed through objects, two, he hit the chair. It fell to the floor with a loud thud. He stood still to see if John had heard it. After a few seconds he figured not. 

He sagged against the wall and laughed out loud. This was ridiculous. He could have just asked John to turn him off, of course, but then he'd want to know why. That was the thing about John, he always wanted to know why. It made him a great audience but a horrible accomplice if he wasn't supposed to know. Sherlock thought that perhaps someday he would say yes to everything asked of him, but that day had yet to come. 

He walked slowly to his bedroom, turning off lights as he went. He stepped through the door, closed it behind him and removed his trousers. He wasn't hard, but now that the possibility was there he knew it wouldn't take long. He pulled off his pants, rolling his eyes at the red material, and unbuttoned his shirt. 

This was always the hard part. He liked when he was dressed in a suit because he could unbutton the shirt and give himself time. It was always too sudden when he pulled the t-shirt over his head and saw the gaping hole. The hole itself hadn't been very large to begin with, but after the infection they had to cut away a lot of tissue. 

He walked to the window and looked at his reflection. He drew the shirt down his shoulders. It was less vivid than a mirror and less real than just glancing down, but it was still frightening. He figured that this was what Mycroft wanted to keep from the public above all else; not that he was brought back without legal consent, but that he was brought back like this. 

No one would want granny back if she had been an organ donor. Can't turn off the ventilator before you remove the organs or they won't be viable. The company wouldn't want people appearing to their loved ones as a very real Operation game. Swish cheese. Emptied out. 

So they waited for the people growing human bodies in jars to get better at it. They waited and they kept him a secret. Their dirty little secret. 

He ran his fingers around the hole, feeling the spongy jagged edge where they tried the last time to save him. It was warm, the same temperature as the rest of him. For some reason he felt like it should be cold. That poisoned skin, that deep crevasse that took him with it. 

He closed his eyes and sat down on the bed. He was real. He was. He just wasn't...natural. John would see that and be disgusted. It didn't leak, the hole in him, it didn't bleed or pulse, but it looked like it had. Red, pulpy, bits of sawed off bone left almost jagged from their last attempt. It looked real, and that would be enough, even with the lights out. 

Victor always had him lay on his stomach. 'Don't make me look at that THING' he'd say. It's not like Sherlock blamed him, he didn't want to either. 

So he lay down and rolled onto his stomach, thinking of John's face when he came home with the food. That smile, the look of awe. He thought of the way John's lips closed around a piece of chicken held precariously in his chopsticks. About his teeth piercing the edge of the fried wonton. About the way he licked his lips when he was nervous. 

He thought of John's tongue and the look in his eyes when Sherlock touched his chin. He thought of what he might look like with Sherlock's fingers up his arse. His cock up his arse. 

He swore aloud as he climaxed, hips hammering intently into the mattress. He rutted softly through the after shocks and finally settled against the sheets. He stayed there as his breathing went back to normal, wishing John was here to stroke his back. 

He finally rolled over and sat up, dizzy from the intensity of it, but still sparkling clean. That was the beauty of being like this, no cleanup. Sure he'd had to go wipe his mouth out with a cloth after tasting the sauce from John's chin, but no semen and no sweat meant he didn't have to bother with showering unless he wanted to. 

He stood and picked up his clothes, putting them back on without looking down at his chest, and walked into the sitting room. He rested his hands on his violin case and opened it slowly. Breathed deeply at seeing it and took it in his hand, tuning it carefully then grabbing his bow. He played something sad, knowing that if he could he would probably be crying now. Not a chest heaving sob, although he'd done his share of that, more resigned. Tears would run down his face slowly and he would ignore them. They'd be gone eventually and he'd pretend it never happened. Better this way anyhow, no waiting for them to dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was shot. They were able to dig out the bullet, but his body refused to heal. They cut away at the infected area of his chest, but eventually he died from Septicemia. His new 'body' still has a huge ugly hole in it. This is why Mycroft's company won't do this for anyone else. People don't want to come back in the exact same body they died in, death is ugly. 
> 
> As for Victor Trevor. I'd punch that dude in the dick. He always had Sherlock lay on his stomach while they had sex because he didn't want to see the hole in Sherlock's chest. He made Sherlock feel like even more of a freak. Sherlock of course believes that if John ever saw the hole he'd be disgusted and leave. Little hint: don't underestimate John Watson. 
> 
> Also, John got off in his own bed thinking of Sherlock, so Yay!


	11. Solidarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't ever tell me I'm not romantic.

John came downstairs the next morning to find chairs, books and papers all over the floor. Before he could even ask what the hell had happened he found Sherlock in the kitchen trying to put out a small fire on the worktop. He quickly took off his robe and stuffed it into the pot, putting out the fire and moving the whole mess to the sink. He turned the water on full blast and turned back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock stood with a look of shock so intense on his face that John almost lost his nerve. Almost. He squared his shoulders, turned off the tap and put his hands on his hips. 

"What in the BLOODY HELL is going on?" He shouted. 

Sherlock stood still and John saw that he wasn't shocked over the pot and small fire, but instead was looking intently at the scar from John's bullet wound. Using his robe to put out the fire, it appeared, was a bad idea. John stood in the kitchen in his pajama bottoms and nothing else as Sherlock stared on. 

"It's nothing." John said sternly, moving to cover the scar with his hands.  
Sherlock caught his wrists and John fought with the dueling anger and arousal the move had caused him to feel. John tugged his arms away and stood with them resolutely at his side. If Sherlock was going to stare then he'd better get his fill. 

"It's huge. Must have been a lot of tissue damage. Can I see the back?" Sherlock asked, already moving behind John. 

John scrambled to get away and Sherlock eyed him carefully. 

"This isn't a science experiment! I'm a human being!" John said, walking up the stairs. 

Sherlock looked after him, wondering what he'd done wrong. 

\-----

John slipped a t-shirt on and glanced at himself in the mirror. His face was flushed pink. He wasn't sure whether he was still concerned with his scar or whether Sherlock's touch had set him off. Either way his breathing came in painful huffs. He saw it coming and was unable to stop it. He felt control slipping as his heart pounded and he started to feel dizzy. 

Just as his knees gave out he felt strong arms around his middle. He sagged against a warm body and closed his eyes. His mind was racing. 

It's a heart attack.  
It's a heart attack.  
It's a heart attack.  
It's a heart attack.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and held John against him. He stroked through his hair and whispered softly. 

"The cortisol and adrenaline are making their way into your bloodstream. The brain has trouble distinguishing between real and imagined threats. Your heart is racing as your chest tightens." Sherlock said. "This is normal. It will end." 

"It's a heart attack." John said. 

"I'm right here." Sherlock replied. "I'm right here." 

John closed his eyes and almost passed out. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder. 

"Breathe with me. In, one, two. Out, one, two." Sherlock said. 

John breathed out shakily and kept pace. Eventually they were both breathing normally again. John pushed away from Sherlock and sat staring at the floor. 

"Well, that was embarrassing." He scoffed. "How did you know what to do?" 

"Mycroft used to have panic attacks when he was younger. I'm sorry I touched your scar." Sherlock said. 

"It was just sudden, is all. And you hadn't seen it before and it's horrible." John replied. 

"It's not that bad." Sherlock said. 

"Compared to what?" John asked sarcastically. 

Sherlock looked away quickly. "I've seen worse. Used to visit the morgue on a regular basis to see interesting cases. One man had almost the whole left side of his chest dug out." 

"Infection?" John asked. 

"Came along with the gunshot wound. I-he didn't make it." Sherlock said, kicking himself for his slip. 

John looked at him quizzically. "You got shot. Are you talking about yourself?" 

Sherlock looked up. "I've got the photos. Would you like to see them?" 

John studied him for a second, then nodded. He didn't, of course, want to see them, but Sherlock wanted to show him and that was enough. Sherlock got up from the bed and walked down the stairs with John following after. He went to a box of papers by the window and pulled out a manilla envelope. He sat on the couch and John sat next to him cautiously. 

"The face is covered for obvious reasons." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. 

He pulled out the first few photos and lay them on John's thighs. They were of the bullet wound before the surgery. John looked them over and Sherlock handed him a few more. John flinched at all the blood and Sherlock handed him the final ones. 

In these Sherlock's body looked almost peaceful. All the blood and equipment had been removed and the open cavity was less graphic if you knew what you were looking at. 

"Was there an exit wound?" John asked. 

Sherlock took John's hand and laid it on his shoulder blade. John looked confused for a second before he felt the edge of the small hole. Then something else came over his face, something Sherlock couldn't identify.  
"Can I see it?" John asked quietly. 

Sherlock turned away from him, unbuttoned his shirt and slid it down his shoulders. John looked at the small circle for a second before speaking. 

"Sherlock...that's not an exit wound." He whispered. 

Sherlock's body was still. 

"They shot you in the back." John said after a moment. 

Sherlock nodded minutely. 

"Can I see the exit wound?" 

Sherlock pulled his shirt back up his shoulders and slowly turned. The hole was slightly covered by the fronts of his shirt but John could tell it was very large. He noticed that Sherlock was shaking and looked into his eyes. He wore a scowl and wouldn't look at John. John looked back down at his chest. 

"I don't really, I mean, I don't understand." He said at length. 

Sherlock looked down at him and shook his head. "You can do better than that. Tell me what you see. What is different from the photos?" 

John looked back down at his chest and held the photos up. It looked bigger than the picture, but that was probably due to the blood. There were streaks of it around the inside edges that weren't there in the photo. By then his body had been cleaned and blood flow had stopped. By then he was dead. 

"This was right before you died?" John asked, resting his hand on Sherlock's chest next to the hole. 

Sherlock smiled slightly. "The second before." 

"And your brain remembered exactly how you were." John said. 

Sherlock nodded. 

"So that's how you appear." John added. 

Shelock nodded again. 

Then John did something magnificent; he laughed. 

"I thought I got the short stick." He said, running his thumb just against the edge of the hole. 

Sherlock smiled at his joke and shrugged. "It doesn't bother you?" He asked. 

John scrunched up his nose. "No. Not really. I mean it's not like you're leaking all over me." 

Sherlock was silent for a moment and John realised he was still touching his chest. He drew his hand away. 

"Don't!" Sherlock yelped. "Not yet. Just...a bit longer." 

John slowly raised his hand back up and placed it against the hole's opening. Sherlock shivered. 

"It's just, no one's ever, um, touched it." Sherlock said, stumbling over his own words and blushing. 

John let his first three fingers slip into the hole and Sherlock closed his eyes. 

"Is it sensitive?" John asked. 

"A little less than the rest of me." Sherlock replied quietly. 

"Do you mind if I-" John began. 

"Go ahead." Sherlock said, too eagerly for his own liking. 

John ran his fingers along the inside edge and then began to palpate, feeling the edges of bone and the differing layers of tissue. Sherlock sat admirably still as John felt around inside him. It was by far the most intimate thing either had ever done. The impact it would have on their friendship didn't slip past them. 

Sherlock opened his eyes when John's hand moved away. John pulled the shirt over his head and placed Sherlock's hand against his scar, replacing his hand and pressing back down. His concentration as he looked was enough to tell Sherlock that it wasn't just a gesture of solidarity. John was actually intrigued. 

Sherlock let himself run his thumb over the light starburst of scar tissue, pressing enough to avoid tickling him. He took in all the data he could, and when he finally let his hand fall to his lap he had a smile on his face. John smiled back at him. 

"We match." John said. 

Shelock grinned wider. He was about to say something stupid about the universe sending them to each other or fate when John spoke again. 

"I'm going to make tea. Clean up the mess you made."

He said it with a gentle fondness that Sherlock had never felt directed at him before. He rolled his eyes for show and stood to pick up the books.


	12. You're Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's brother shows up to remind him that caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock tells him to fuck off, and John goes to the morgue.

A knock came to the door a little after breakfast. John got up and hobbled over to open it. Mycroft Holmes in all his three piece glory stood glowering in front of him. 

"I need to speak with my brother." He said. 

"He's in the-" John began. 

"Alone." Mycroft interrupted, tapping his umbrella against the floor loudly as if it might scare John away. 

John rolled his eyes and grabbed his cane. Sherlock glared at his brother as Mycroft pushed past John and went to sit in his chair. John sighed and walked out of the flat. 

"What do you want?" Sherlock spit. 

Mycroft looked at the floor. "It's touching." He said. 

"What-" Sherlock tried. 

"Pathetic, but touching. You do remember what happened last time." Mycroft said. 

"That was just sex." Sherlock said bitterly. 

"You didn't seem to think so. There was a reason I altered your state, Sherlock. It was foolish of you to change it back."

"Altered my state? Is that how you think of it? Does that help you sleep at night? Making me unable to fornicate didn't stop me from feeling. You can't do that to me." Sherlock hissed. 

"You never cared about it before. Then Victor came along and what? Accepted your new form? Told you he didn't care that you were different? Did you really fall for that? People are all the same, brother, willing to do what they want if they can get away with it. You were played, it's that simple. I thought you'd appreciate not having to deal with that aspect of life."

"It wasn't your place to decide that for me. It's never your place, but you still manage to stomp over everyone's boundaries. What is it like to be alone? To know that it's your fault?" Sherlock said. 

"And you think you're not alone? You think that now you have this army fellow you won't ever be alone again? If you become dependant on him it will spell your ruin. Fucking him won't change that." Mycroft said, standing and walking towards the door. 

"John cares about me. A hell of a lot more than you." Sherlock said angrily. 

"And what do you think will happen to that care when he sees it? Hmm?" Mycroft shot back. 

"He's already seen it! Saw it today, and he didn't leave. You think all people are evil because it comforts you. Don't ever push me to think the same. Not anymore."

Mycroft was shocked, but thought he hid it well, snorting and leaving the flat. He got into the elevator and went all the way to the ground floor. When the doors opened he found John pacing in the hall. 

"I'm onto you." He spit. 

John brushed past him without a word and made his way back to the flat. When he walked in Sherlock was pulling at his hair. 

"Are you okay?" He asked. 

"Do you have any clue what it's like to want a cigarette without having lungs?" Sherlock demanded. 

"Can't say I do." John replied. 

Sherlock lay down forcefully on the couch and gritted his teeth. John sat in his chair and stared at him. 

"Your brother's an arse." He said. 

"You have no idea." Sherlock replied bitterly. 

The computer chimed and Sherlock shot up and across the room. He opened his mail and read a new letter from Lestrade. John watched as his body tensed, and then erupted with motion. He hopped up and down and turned around with a huge grin. 

"There's been a murder." He sang. "A murder! An impossible murder!" 

John laughed. 

"I need you to go to the crime scene." Sherlock said. 

John raised his eyebrows. "They'll never let me onto the crime scene." 

"Fine. I'll talk to Molly. She works at the morgue. I need you to write down everything you see on the body. Look at the clothes. Every inch of skin. Note everything. Everything."

Sherlock stood looking at John expectantly for a few seconds before John sighed loudly. Sherlock took it as a yes and reached forward, gripping his wrist and using his display to call Molly. John sat wondering when he would stop being a tool for Sherlock's enjoyment while the two talked. When Sherlock hung up John stood. 

"We really need to get you a mobile." He said. 

"Why would I need a mobile? You've got a wrist display." Sherlock said, looking like he really didn't understand. 

"You can't just keep using it! What if I'm asleep? What if I'm busy?" John demanded. 

Sherlock looked at him and rolled his eyes. "When are you ever busy?" 

"You're right, Sherlock, I don't have a life." John said bitterly. 

Sherlock watched as he strode angrily from the room. Strode. John Watson bloody strode. Sherlock went immediately to his mind palace, going over the reasons for a psychosomatic limp to dissappear. It seemed that all John needed was a little adrenaline. Sherlock smiled. He knew exactly what to do. 

\-----

John's wrist display wrang just as he was leaving the morgue. He walked out of the building and answered. Sherlock was staring back at him. 

"I need you to follow a lead." He said. 

"Wait! When did you get a mobile?" John asked. 

"I pickpocket the security detail when he's annoying. Now, the lead." Sherlock said with a grin. 

\-----

Four hours later John walked through the door into the flat. He was smiling and holding a bag. Sherlock sat up and smiled back at him. 

"This had better be worth it. I had to wait for an hour for your homeless person to bring it to me. I also ended up in a fist fight with the gardener. Tell me what I've done." He said. 

Sherlock hopped up and grabbed the bag. He walked to the kitchen and dumped it out on the table. There were receipts, empty crisp bags and a few used condoms.

"You had me collecting garbage? We're going to have to sanitize the table. Jesus Christ. You, Sherlock Holmes, are going to be the death of me!" John said, thoroughly exasperated but happy. 

"I needed his DNA. I had you ask him about his dead daughter so he wouldn't be paying attention when my people broke into the back of the house. You did an admirable job." Sherlock exclaimed. 

John leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, his smile warm but sleepy. When Sherlock spoke next it made him jump because of the taller man's proximity. 

"How's your leg?" He asked. 

"My leg? What do you mean how's..." John trailed off at the end, looking down and realising he'd left his cane behind. 

"You got angry at me before you left. The adrenaline made you forget about your cane, and therfore your leg. The adrenaline of the fight helped. You'll come down soon and we'll see how much has changed. I think I might be able to cure you." Sherlock said smugly. 

John shook his head. "You bastard. You got me angry to test a theory?" 

"No, I didn't mean to get you angry. I guess it just worked out for the best." Sherlock said, sporting a goofy grin. 

John grabbed his collar and pulled him close, pressing their lips together and then stepping away. 

"I'm sorry! That was...I didn't mean to do that!" He said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the floor. 

Sherlock took a step forward and put his hand on John's arm. 

"I don't mind." Sherlock whispered. 

"I'm not gay." John said quietly. 

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not human." 

John laughed and looked up. Sherlock kissed him this time, a simple brushing of lips. John smiled and started chuckling. 

"You're impossible." He said.


	13. You Should Keep This One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Mrs Hudson and they finish the case.

John looked down at his feet and Sherlock moved to fill the kettle with water.

"So you're making the tea now?" John asked teasingly.

"You're busy fretting over your sexuality." Sherlock said. "Thought you could use a cuppa."

"No I'm not!" John said defensively.

Sherlock turned around and raised an eyebrow.

"Well, maybe a little." John said quietly.

It was worth admitting it for the smile Sherlock gave him, warm and open. He wondered absently what kind of God would kill the man he was so obviously meant to love. Instead of focusing on that particular question John went and got the milk out of the fridge.

Sherlock poured the now steaming water into the matching cups and tossed two tea bags in as well. He stuck the cups on saucers and walked into the sitting room with them, sitting on the sofa and waiting for John to take a seat.

John did so, sitting in the high back chair he usually used and pouring milk into his cup. He blew over the surface to cool it while resolutely NOT looking at Sherlock. After a few minutes he realised Sherlock was waiting for him to broach the subject.

Instead John did what he does best; he brushed aside the topic of his feelings and asked Sherlock to explain his deductions. By the time Sherlock had told John how he knew the gardener had killed the woman they were sitting on the couch touching shoulders. 

John rested his hand on Sherlock's knee as they discussed how to get the new information to the police. They both thought it would be a good idea to tell Greg first; John because Greg trusted Sherlock, and Sherlock because 'Even Graham Lestrade couldn't mess this one up'. John chuckled and shook his head. He moved his hand up to Sherlock's thigh and was leaning in quite a bit when the front door opened. 

"You hoo! Just thought I'd bring some more tea. I know how you go through it." Mrs Hudson said cheerily. 

John took his hand from Sherlock's knee quickly and stood. Sherlock sighed and stood next to him, putting his hand on John's lower back protectively. 

"Mrs Hudson-" He began. 

"Oh! You must be John! So nice to meet you! Army doctor and handsome too. I do say, Sherlock, I think you should keep this one." Mrs Hudson bubbled. 

John blushed and walked to take the tea from her hands. 

"Would you like to stay for a cuppa?" He asked. 

"Oh, no dear. I'll let you boys get back to it." She said with a wink. 

John flushed further and brought the tea into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and turned it on. 

"She's...happy." He said with a nervous laugh. 

"She's harmless." Sherlock said, walking to join John at the sink. "She's already a fan." 

John drew in a quick breath as Sherlock moved up behind him. He closed his eyes and hummed when Sherlock bent close and kissed his neck. He was about to push his hips back when Sherlock stepped away and pulled his new (stolen) mobile from his pocket. 

"Lestrade." He said. "Yes. Yes. I'll be done by seven. Good." 

He rang off and moved to the kitchen table, cleaning away the garbage and setting the used condoms aside. He pulled out his microscope, some test tubes and vials of liquid, and started working on the DNA test. 

"Anything I can do to help?" John asked. 

Sherlock smiled up at him. "Feel like taking notes?" 

"Absolutely." John said, relaxing noticeably now that he had something besides his arousal to focus on. 

He grabbed his notebook and a pen and took a seat next to Sherlock.

\-----

They spent the rest of the evening finishing up the case, and by dinner John was tired and his leg was beginning to cramp. Sherlock noticed, of course, and put together a list of things he would need for his next experiment. He handed it to John with a smile and went to lay on the sofa. 

"So you want me to get all this from Tesco?" He asked. 

Sherlock hummed in agreement. 

"You wouldn't happen to have a bank card I suppose." John replied. 

"Use the one Lestrade gave you the first day. The pin is 7437.“ Sherlock replied. 

John walked to the door and looked at his cane once before deciding to leave it there. He walked from the flat and got into the elevator. Sherlock bound from the couch and went to frantically clean his room. He straightened the papers and hid the mummified cat he had on the windowsill. 

He approximated that it would take John a half hour to aquire all the things on the list and make it home. He set to work destroying all of the bugs he knew Mycroft had placed in his room and with five minutes left hopped into the shower. The water felt strange on his skin but wonderful in his hair. He used a shampoo he knew John would like and an aftershave he himself loved. Just because he was only nearly human didn't mean he couldn't be civilized. 

Just as he was drying his hair he heard John enter the flat. He wrapped himself in his robe and strode into the kitchen, knowing the scent and steam from the shower would catch John's attention. 

"Were you able to find everything?" He asked. 

John smiled and set the bags on the worktop. "Yep. Not a problem at all. I'm going to make dinner." 

Sherlock nodded and sat at the table. 

John walked to the fridge and opened the door. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, finding the lingering scent from Sherlock's shower particularly enticing. Sherlock, who heard him inhale, smiled to himself. 

John made a quick sandwich and sat with Sherlock, spraying the table off first and scowling at it. Sherlock chuckled and sat back. 

"I'm going to send the information off to Lestrade now. They should be able to make an arrest by morning." Sherlock stated. 

John grinned and set his sandwich down. "That brain of yours really is quite extraordinary." 

Sherlock basked happily in the praise.


	14. A Bit Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that would be telling...

As John ate his sandwich he could feel the tension growing. Sherlock was playing around on his stolen mobile, but kept looking up from time to time. As John finished his sandwich and went to the fridge for a well deserved beer Sherlock stood and crossed the room. He was rummaging through a cabinet when John broke. 

"You smell bloody fantastic." He said, not willing to look up from his feet.   
Sherlock smiled slightly and hummed in agreement. He pulled out a few pieces of scientific equipment and set them on the kitchen table. John watched his muscles work beneath his thin robe and chewed on his lip. Sherlock turned suddenly and pressed John against the counter. The older man took in a sharp breath and licked his lips. 

"You smell good as well, doctor." Sherlock purred. 

"I'd never actually kissed a man." John blurted out nervously. 

"Shall I show you how it's done?" Sherlock asked, closing the space between them and not waiting for an answer. 

John moaned as Sherlock's tongue pressed hungrily into his mouth. It was warm and wet and demanding. It was sin. He let Sherlock tease his tongue into submission, stroking finally up its length and humming appreciatively. Sherlock drew back, breaking the kiss and looking John up and down. John felt himself blushing and compulsively cleared his throat. 

Sherlock grinned wickedly and gripped John's arse. "I like it when you're nervous." 

"I'm not nervous." John said. 

Sherlock pressed his groin against John's, letting their rigid lengths rub together. 

"And you're not gay. Am I the exception, John?" Sherlock asked teasingly as they rutted against one another. 

"Yes." John said. "Yes." 

"And do you want to fuck me, doctor? Do you want to shove your-"

John woke with a gasp, heart pumping in his chest and cock achingly hard. Someone was shaking his shoulder. He looked up to find Sherlock watching him with worried eyes. 

"You were having a nightmare. I heard you calling for me in your sleep." Sherlock said quietly as he began to rub John's back. 

John choked on a laugh that ended up sounding more like a sob and covered his face. Sherlock sat down next to him and pulled him close. 

"It's alright. I used to have nightmares. They started right after I came back. I could feel the surgeons cutting into me and always woke in a sweat. It's nothing to be ashamed of." Sherlock whispered. 

John didn't know what to say. He wanted to come clean, tell Sherlock it was a wet dream, but he couldn't. If he told Sherlock now he would probably feel foolish. The last thing John wanted to do was make Sherlock feel foolish for caring. So he kept his mouth shut and tried to even out his breathing. 

"I'll lay with you until you get back to sleep. I mean, if you want. I don't have to, just if it would help." Sherlock said. 

John's heart broke at the sincere emotion in Sherlock's face. 

"Yeah. That would be good." He said. 

Sherlock's lip twitched into a smile and he lay down on his side. John lay down as well and closed his eyes, willing his erection away and wondering if life could ever get more complicated. Sherlock pulled him close, tucking his knees behind John's and wrapping an arm around him.   
"All's well." Sherlock whispered. 

\-----

In the morning John woke to find Sherlock gone. It was a relief, to be honest, and he sighed deeply and get out of bed. He grabbed some fresh clothes and his toiletries then made his way down the stairs. Sherlock was laying on the couch in his thinking position. John smiled and went to take a shower. Once the water was hot he hopped in. 

He was wetting his hair with his eyes closed when he accidentally picked up Sherlock's shampoo and poured a bit in his hand. When he brought it up to his head and started to lather his hair with it he almost moaned out loud. Bloody hell. 

He closed his eyes again and ran a hand down to his already interested cock, gripping it loosely and remembering the dream from the night before. 'Do you want to fuck me, doctor?' He got hard quickly, water and shampoo helping his hand to slide up and down his shaft. Sherlock Holmes. Fucking Christ. 

He pumped his cock faster, letting his thumb rub over the head every so often and putting his hand on the wall to steady himself. When he felt himself getting close he stuck two fingers in his mouth and focused on the head of his prick. He imagined Sherlock's fingers in his mouth, his cock, his tongue. When he came his fingers were the only thing keeping him from shouting Sherlock's name. 

He sagged against the tile wall and stroked himself through the aftershocks. Once he was finally spent he stood up on shaky legs and rewashed his hair with his own shampoo, hoping the genius wouldn't notice. Hoping was never enough. 

Once he had cleaned himself and didn't feel like his legs were rubber anymore he got out of the shower and brushed his teeth. He tried not to think about what Sherlock would deduce when he walked into the sitting room, and instead hoped that he would still be tucked away in his own mind. He shaved and dressed and entered the kitchen. 

Sherlock was still on the couch, seemingly far far away. John grabbed a pan from the cabinet next to the sink and got out some eggs and a tomato. He sprayed the pan down with oil and made himself breakfast. Once it was cooked he sat at the kitchen table facing away from the mute detective. 

Three bites in he nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock's nose pressed right behind his ear. Sherlock breathed in deeply and then whispered. 

"Easy mistake to make with your eyes closed. I do have to wonder why you tried to hide it, though. You wouldn't think I was concerned about you sharing my things, so it's something else. Perhaps you liked the scent. Perhaps you liked it a bit too much." Sherlock purred. 

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply as Sherlock spoke, wondering how on earth someone could sound so wicked while talking about shampoo. When Sherlock had finished speaking he nuzzled John's ear with his nose and then left. John pushed his plate out of the way and let his head hit the table. Why he ever thought he could pull the wool over those mercurial, clever eyes he didn't know.


	15. Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys try to solve murder and Greg finally pays Mycroft a visit.

For the first time since he was eighteen John was hard less than twenty minutes after coming. He growled as he stood and made his way to Sherlock's bedroom door. He could hear Sherlock doing something on the other side. After a few moments he lost his nerve and went back to finish his now congealed breakfast. 

An hour later Sherlock burst from his bedroom with a violin in his hand. He strode to the window and began playing it roughly, the notes more like a wheeze than a melody. John wondered how much more the instrument could take before a string snapped. He was about to ask if Sherlock was alright when the tall man let the bow fall to his side. 

"I need your assistance, John." He said, turning and all but stalking towards the kitchen. 

John swallowed hard and leaned back in his chair. "Alright. What can I do?" 

"I want you to help me solve my murder." 

\-----

A knock came on Mycroft's study door. He set down his paper and scowled at the piece of wood. 

"Come in." He said at length. 

The door opened slowly and Greg Lestrade walked in. Mycroft rolled his eyes and went back to his paper. 

"What do you need, detective inspector?" Mycroft asked. 

"You know I'm not on the force anymore. Why do you continue to call me that?" Greg asked. 

"It's part of your identity. I don't see why you should be able to retire from who you are." Mycroft replied. 

"I didn't retire. I quit. Why are we still doing this?" Greg asked. 

Mycroft shook out his paper and turned the page. "Doing what, Gregory?"   
Greg walked across the room and tore the paper from Mycroft's hand. The taller man stood and pressed himself to Greg in a sign of dominance. Greg snarled and grabbed hold of the hair at the base of Mycroft's skull. He pulled hard. 

"Stop it." Greg said calmly. 

"No!" Mycroft hissed. 

Greg took hold of his chin roughly and made the taller man look him in the eye. Mycroft's skin was starting to flush and his breath was becoming ragged. 

"I let you act like a child for too long. I thought you needed time to recover from Sherlock's death. I'm starting to think that if I don't take control now I'll lose you for good. I don't want that to happen." Greg said gently. 

Mycroft looked away and Greg pulled hard on his hair until he was breathing through his nose because of the pain. When Greg let go Mycroft slid to his knees. He buried his face in Greg's stomach as the older man stroked his hair. 

"I know it's been hard. I'm sorry you chose to go it alone for these last few years. I'm sorry I gave you the choice." Greg whispered. 

Mycroft nodded and Greg felt moisture seeping through his shirt where Mycroft's face was pressed to him. He breathed deeply and tried to prepare himself for the day to come. 

\-----

"How do we begin?" John asked. 

"I'll have to bring you up to date on the case that I was solving when I was killed. I have a feeling I know who killed me." Sherlock said, walking to the far wall and kneeling. 

He pulled up a floorboard with a huff and pulled out a folder. He dusted it off, replaced the board, and then brought the folder to John. Inside were photo copies of paperwork and crime scene photos. John looked them over and then lay them out on the table. 

"So this woman killed her lover, and you think she killed you?" John asked. 

"Yes. She killed her lover and fed his body to her pack. She'd been breeding huskies for over thirty years, and was known for feeding them a raw diet. The thing she didn't know, until she was bringing one of the dogs to a show, was that her lover had had knee surgery when he was young. He had seven pins put in his knee by an orthopaedic surgeon. 

The metal detector went off in the airport. She canceled her flight and brought the dog home. During the next month she took three of her other dogs to places that had metal detectors, every time the new dog set off the alarm. Two times at the courthouse, which keeps records of said events and once at an upscale jewelry store. I had my people ask around, everyone remembered the crazy lady with the dog. 

Four out of her five dogs had ingested at least one pin. She knew that it wouldn't be long before we took the dogs in and found out for ourselves. According to her there was a horrible parvo breakout two days after the police started talking to her about her missing lover."

"So she had them put down?" John asked. 

"She acquired the euthanasia drug and did it herself. Then she had them cremated. They didn't find the ashes at her home, but I knew how much she cared about her dogs." Sherlock stated. 

"So she'd keep the ashes no matter what." John added. 

Sherlock's lips quirked upwards. "And if we found the ashes we could pin the murder on her." 

"Because the pins would have serial numbers that would be traced back to her lover. Brilliant!" John gasped. 

Sherlock's smile turned sad. "She thought so too. I went to speak with her, to find out where she had the ashes. She shot me." 

"Why didn't you tell the police?" John asked anxiously. 

"When they found me I was passed out from blood loss. I didn't come to when I should have. Then the infection set in. Then it was over." Sherlock answered. 

"Why didn't you tell Greg when you came back?" John asked. 

"I didn't remember where I had gone and what I was doing when I was killed. I only got a glimpse of it when I started looking through my old things the other night. I've been putting the case back together in secret for the last two days. I think I've figured out where she hid the ashes."


	16. Very, Very Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn for real this time! And some feels.

That night John had a new and horrible dream. He was standing in an alley as Sherlock ran past. It was night and the air felt stale around him. Sherlock's body must have run past three times before he followed it with his gaze. Just as he did the familiar sound of a bullet whizzing by made him draw in a deep breath. It tagged Sherlock in the back, and as his body fell John ran towards him. 

"Sherlock!" He screamed, sitting bolt upright in bed. 

He turned his head as he heard footsteps approaching. Sherlock walked in, eyes scared, and came over to the bed. He sat next to John and John crumpled against him. 

"It was just a dream. You're here with me. It's alright." Sherlock murmured. 

"No!" John exclaimed, drawing back and looking Sherlock in the eyes. "It wasn't just a dream. It was you-you dying..." 

Sherlock's face twisted and he was suddenly holding John painfully close. John sagged against him and let the fear and pain of the dream out in a hushed sob as Sherlock's fingers curled into his back. Sherlock drew back suddenly and pressed his lips against John's, drawing his tongue against his bottom lip and making John sigh deeply. 

He drew back again and kissed the tracks the tears had made down John's cheeks. John clamped his eyes shut and tried to calm his breathing. 

"Me telling you...it was too much. To great a burden. I am sorry John, I am. It was selfish of me to-" Sherlock began. 

John shook his head violently. "No. I need to be a part of this. I need to-" 

And Sherlock was kissing him again, this time more violently. He bit at John's lips and then dragged his teeth down his neck. John shuddered and didn't manage to cover his own arousal. The sounds he made! The bloody sounds. Desperate and fragile. 

Sherlock pressed him to the bed and mounted him, grinding down against him and taking in a ragged breath himself. John moaned as their pricks rubbed against each other through a few layers of clothes. He hurriedly pulled his boxers down as Sherlock removed his own pants. John only had a second to see his cock, and no time to worry himself over it, before Sherlock took them both in hand and stroked once. 

"Lube. Please tell me you have lubricant." Sherlock whimpered. 

John pointed to the bedside table and pulled his shirt over his head as Sherlock grabbed the small tube and squeezed some out into his hand. He took both their lengths again and the feeling of that slick fist and another cock pulsing against him had John pushing his hips upwards. 

Sherlock's head had fallen back and his eyes were closed tightly. He was whimpering and stroking them as slowly as his body could handle, trying to make it last. Although John could commend him for his efforts he really wasn't having any of that right then. 

He swiftly rolled them over and sighed deeply as Sherlock wrapped his legs around his waist and pushed into John's fist that was now curled around his. His eyes were wide and he looked so bloody beautiful, curls laid out on the pillow, dark and glossy. John started moving their hands faster and Sherlock began chanting his name. 

"That's it! Chase it, Sherlock!" John said. 

He quickened the pace and then let go to spread out the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown so he could rub his hands up the svelte man's sides. Sherlock jerked under him, hand leaving their cocks and pulling the thin silk tight to cover himself. He'd gone a bright shade of rose and was looking back and forth. 

"As you may remember I've got a big hole in my chest." He said uncomfortably. 

John thought he was going for nonchalant, but he was yards off. 

"Don't want to kill the mood." Sherlock added. 

The mood was quite close to death as he was speaking, John could feel Sherlock trembling beneath him. He ran his thumb against the genius' cheekbone gently. 

"You don't have to hide from me." He whispered. 

Sherlock swallowed deeply as John took them both in hand and kissed his neck. Sherlock's erection had flagged a bit, but John's ministrations were bringing it back to full attention. He sat up a bit and rubbed his thumb against the heads of their pricks, eliciting a loud moan from the detective and making heat pool in his belly. 

He tried once again to pull the robe open and this time Sherlock let him. He was gorgeous. Absolutely exquisite. Milky pale flesh pulled taut against bone and muscle. He licked at Sherlock's chest and bit down gently on his nipple. Sherlock arched his back and whined loudly. 

"Sensitive, are we?" John teased before blowing air against his skin. 

"Oh! John! No one's ever-" He whimpered. 

John thrust hard into his own fist at that, the idea of giving Sherlock something no one else ever had gave him a heady feeling that wasn't easy to shake. He was quite suddenly right at the brink, and when he looked down to find Sherlock's mouth shaped in a perfect 'o' he started to come. 

Sherlock shouted his name as John shot hot come across his body. Still in the aftershocks John leaned down and licked a broad stripe through the come on Sherlock's belly, following the trial to the edge of the hole. He looked up purposefully to get Sherlock attention and after their eyes had met he licked deep into the cavern that had once been the seat of his demise. 

Sherlock cursed and let his head fall back, finally climaxing with a shout of John's name. John continued to stroke until they were both too sensitive and then slumped to Sherlock's side. He grabbed a pair of pants from the floor and cleaned them off, then wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist and closed his eyes. 

"Was that okay?" He asked softly. 

Sherlock chuckled lightly. "Okay doesn't even begin to cover it. That was...very, very good."


	17. Never Stopped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade for my lovely yarnjunkie.

John fell asleep almost immediately, wrapping his arm tightly around Sherlock's waist and snoring softly. Sherlock replayed the nights events over and over in his head. He hadn't expected things to go as they did. He'd never thought someone would tolerate, let alone seem to enjoy, him being completely naked.

He hadn't had problems with self confidence before he...before the bullet tore his life away. He'd always seen concepts such as beauty and desirability to be useless. It was all about procreation, and he didn't want anything to do with that thank you very much. Then the bullet had come along and changed everything. 

He still didn't think about the hole's effect on others as he didn't see himself undressing in front of anyone as a possibility. Sex had always been something he avoided. It wasn't worth it to deal with pesky emotions and excess bodily fluids. He'd approached his own climaxes in private, and never seen any reason to change. 

The first time he'd had sex was when Victor threatened to leave. He'd told Sherlock that they shouldn't be in a relationship if he didn't want sex. They weren't in a relationship at the time but Sherlock was feeling the need for acceptance as a dull ache in his stomach. It seemed that to get what he wanted and not be sentenced to an existence filled with Mycroft, and Mycroft alone, he would have to give something up. A simple give and take. At the time it seemed worth it. 

Victor was never rough with him, and it wasn't as if he didn't enjoy the sex, the problem was that Sherlock wasn't exactly attracted to Victor in a physical way. So the sex, while not painful, was unfulfilling. Sherlock hadn't even been upset when he found out Mycroft had turned off his sex drive after Victor left. It was better to not have to worry about it. Then John came along. 

Suddenly there was attraction. It was like wildfire, forcing it's way brutally through him and leaving him feeling...desperate. He still had attraction, but no outlet. The change seemed to not have been well thought out, or at least as thought out as an outsider would manage. So there Sherlock was, attracted to John and left wanting. 

It had only taken a short amount of time to figure out how to fix his system, he was a genius after all, and once it was out of the way he was ready to move forward. He hadn't thought it would be so easy. After their first kiss he had worried that John would stand by his proclamation of being 'not gay' and find it hard to touch Sherlock. 

John, of course, turned out to be quite the surprise. He'd flipped the switch quite easily and now, with his sweat dampened body wrapped around Sherlock, he slept peacefully. Sherlock kissed the top of his head and went back to trying to figure out how they would prove his murder. 

\-----

"I've missed you." Mycroft admitted, eyes drifting to the floor as though it was shameful. 

Greg handed him a drink and sat next to him on the sofa, wrapping his arm around the taller man's shoulder and pulling him close. He breathed in that familiar scent, expensive shampoo and almost bitter cologne, and sighed deeply. 

"I've missed you too. You don't hate me, do you?" Greg asked. 

Mycroft took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes. "I hate myself, not you, Gregory." 

"There's nothing you could have done to stop any of it. Sherlock was always chasing after death." 

"I've made a huge mistake," Mycroft said quietly, "I shouldn't have brought him back. I've made a mess of everything and I don't know how to fix it." 

Greg kissed Mycroft on the cheek. "I don't think it's as broken as you believe." 

Mycroft turned to Greg with a look of disgust on his face. "You TRUST our army doctor?" 

Greg frowned and nodded. "He almost quit on us, you know. Didn't like the fact that he may have to be around for longer than three weeks. I doubt he'd have been so peeved if he was in this to take advantage of Sherlock. I have a feeling he's changed his mind, too, moving in and all. Couldn't believe you let him. So much for the short chain."

Mycroft took a long sip of his drink and rolled the glass back and forth in his hands. "I was trying to protect him." 

Greg snorted. "Well you were doing a shite job." 

Mycroft sighed and put the glass down, curling into Greg's lap like an overgrown house cat and hiding his face. 

"He's not a child, no matter how much he acts like one, and I don't think restricting him the way you have is doing either of you any good." Greg said, running his fingers through Mycroft's short auburn hair. 

"If I was making such a mess of things why didn't you say anything." Mycroft mumbled against Greg's belly. 

"As I remember it, you wouldn't take my calls."

Mycroft reached up and started unbuttoning Greg's shirt. "I'm terribly sorry for that. Guilt can make men do strange things." 

As Mycroft slid further into Greg's lap the older man gripped his face and pulled him in for a rough kiss. Mycroft practically melted in his grip, hands falling uselessly at his sides and eyes slipping closed. 

"That's enough apologizing. I want to take you to bed." Greg whispered against Mycroft's lips. 

The tall man nodded and stood without his usual grace to follow Greg down his hallway towards the bedroom. Once there Greg drew the duvet down and set about undressing. Mycroft did the same, slipping out of his finely tailored clothes and resting on his bare knees in front of Greg. He closed his eyes as the older man raked his fingers through his hair and gripped the short strands at the base of his skull. 

Long ago it had been the sign they had devised for Mycroft to know he needed to submit. It let him know he was safe in Greg's hands and had nothing to worry about. 'You're mine', it whispered, 'let go'. 

Mycroft did just that, slipping deeply as Greg pulled him up and arranged him on the bed. Greg knew Mycroft would be especially vulnerable tonight, and had something in mind. He pulled open the bedside drawer and got out a small bottle of lubricant. Mycroft was breathing deeply as Greg slid onto the bed behind him and slicked up his hand. 

"Remember you're safe. Perfectly safe with me. If you want to stop, or even slow down, you know what to say. What are you, love?" Greg asked, something fluttering in his stomach as he said the words he used to know so well. 

"I'm safe." Mycroft said, sounding far away. 

Greg kissed his shoulder and slipped a finger between Mycroft's cheeks, rubbing slowly at his arsehole and whispering to him. 

"Gorgeous man, good man. I've got you."

He slowly pressed against Mycroft's hole and moaned as he felt the tip slip in tightly. He felt Mycroft relax after a beat and pushed his finger further in. 

"God, you're tight. It's been so long. I've missed this so much Myc."

Mycroft shivered as Greg used the nickname no one else was allowed. He pushed his hips back unconsciously and Greg's finger slid all the way in. He curled it gently and rubbed against that small bundle of nerves that always sent Mycroft spiraling. When Mycroft had settled he slipped in a second finger, pumping them in and out while kissing Mycroft's neck. 

After the third finger was introduced Mycroft started to beg. "Please, Gregory, please." 

Greg took pity and pulled his fingers out gently, then slicked up his cock and cleaned off his hand with a wipe from the bedside table. He threaded his right arm under Mycroft's neck and pulled him close, holding his prick steady with his left hand and guiding the head to Mycroft's now slick and open hole. 

Mycroft moaned as the head slipped in and Greg moved slowly deeper. He started to whimper when Greg gripped his hip and started to fuck him in earnest. Greg kissed and bit at his neck as he plunged his cock deep into that demanding heat. 

"God, you feel good! Oh, Christ, I waited so long! Perfect man, beautiful man!" Greg mumbled as he began to fuck Mycroft deeper. 

"Oh! Oh! Harder!" Mycroft moaned. 

Greg pushed Mycroft gently so he was face down and started pummeling into him. He held Mycroft still, gripping his shoulders and holding tight. Greg fucked him hard and felt him getting close, his arsehole tightening wonderfully as he approached his orgasm. 

"That's it, Myc, come for me. Be good, I know you want to. Come." Greg growled. 

Mycroft cried out and shook and clamped down so hard on Greg's cock that his vision went white. His entire existence was focused on the feeling of his prick pushing through that tight ring of muscle. Mycroft's arsehole clenched once more and Greg was gone, coming harder than he had in years and cursing at the top of his lungs. 

When he finally came down he pulled out and cleaned both of them up before gathering Mycroft in his arms. The taller man's eyes were damp and Greg kissed him softly. 

"Will you move in with me?" Mycroft whispered. 

"Funny way to ask a bloke to spend the night." Greg said with a smirk. 

When Mycroft didn't reply he kissed him again. "Of course I will. Now go to sleep, I'll make you breakfast in the morning." 

"I love you, Gregory." Mycroft whispered. 

"I love you too, Myc. Never stopped loving you."


	18. It's Quite Lifelike, Isn't It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where everything goes mad.

The next morning at breakfast Greg came up with an idea. He'd been thinking for hours about how he could help Mycroft start to fix his relationship with his brother. The idea came to him as he was making an omelette. He finished it and served it up, then sat across from Mycroft and smiled. 

"I've got it." He said with a gleam in his eye. 

"You've got what?" Mycroft asked as he took a bite of his breakfast. 

"I know how to mend things with Sherlock."

"If this involves some sort of outpouring of emotion, you can count me out." Mycroft said stubbornly. 

Greg sighed and crossed his arms. "You have to be willing to do this, Myc. You do realise you'll have to apologize eventually, right?" 

"I HAVE apologized!" Mycroft huffed. 

"Bollocks! You probably said something along the lines of 'I'm sorry you went and got yourself killed'." Greg shot back. 

Mycroft looked back down at his plate and sighed. "What do you have in mind?" 

\-----

John woke early to find Sherlock still in bed with him. He hummed his approval and kissed Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock ran his long fingers through John's hair and scratched at his scalp. 

"Are we a proper couple?" Sherlock asked. 

John sat up and stretched. "Do you want to be?" 

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and nodded. John smiled warmly and ducked down to kiss him. 

"Then it's settled. I need some toast." John said as he got from the bed and slipped on his robe. 

Sherlock lay on his back for a moment smiling to himself and marveling over how different this felt than it had with Victor. He fell like his chest might burst, and all he wanted to do was take John out to show him off. He frowned at that, remembering the limitations of his form and rolled onto his side. 'No reason to dwell', he thought. 

\-----

"Preposterous!" Mycroft spit. "Sherlock would never stand for it!" 

Greg rolled his eyes. "Wouldn't he? It'll be a shock at first, sure, but who else besides Sherlock would go for something like this? Who else but the man who claims his body is just transport? Do you really think he'd rather stay locked up in this facility?" 

Mycroft really didn't want to concede, but Greg actually had a point. How many times had Sherlock used a disguise to go under cover? He'd even dressed as a woman several times to catch criminals in the act. He slumped in his seat, something the posh man didn't often do, and let out a sigh. 

"What are our options?" He asked weakly. 

Greg smiled and got out Mycroft's laptop. 

\-----

"We really can't be late." John chimed from the foyer. 

"You mean YOU can't be late. Just turn me on when you get there." Sherlock replied from the couch. 

"You're the laziest person I've ever met." John said with a sigh. 

"And yet you're going to do it." 

"Yes. Yes, I am." John replied, walking out the door and into the elevator.  
He thought of all the things that drove him mad about Sherlock and wondered why they didn't really bother him. I mean, sure, he got exasperated now and again, but he was more often caught up in the enigma. Sherlock was like no other person...yes, person, he'd ever met. He smiled to himself and got off at the first floor. 

He nodded to the security guard on his way down the hall and she smiled warmly at him. When he made it to the office he opened the door and switched on the computer and projector. In less than a minute Sherlock was lounging on the chair opposite and looking bored. 

"See, that wasn't too hard." He purred. 

John just shook his head and logged in. He picked up the clipboard, made the appropriate notes and flipped to the second page. 

"Looks like today is all about checking your memory." He said. 

"Dull." Sherlock whined. 

"Yeah, well, everything's dull to you."

Sherlock quirked a smile at that and rested back against the seat. 'Everything but you.', he thought. 

\-----

"This one's not so bad." Greg said as he scrolled down. 

"No. Not a chance. He looks like our uncle Mort. Never liked him." Mycroft said with a sneer. 

"Alright, next." 

"A woman? Do you really think John wouldn't kill us? He is a soldier, Gregory."

Greg snorted and scrolled to the last page. 

"No." Mycroft said curtly. 

"Why not?" Greg asked. 

Mycroft looked as if he might laugh. "Because he's...he's...Sherlock would never go for it." 

"That's a pretty flimsy reason. Think about it for a moment. He's tall, strong, capable."

"He's all wrong." Mycroft replied. 

"Why?" Greg implored, wanting to get a real answer. 

"He looks nothing like Sherlock!"

"That's not his purpose. He's just a temporary form. If you think a smaller one would be better we can go back to the woman, or the first man."

"No. No." Mycroft said, defeated. 

"Look, he's one the armed forces have been using over the past few months. He's more agile than he looks, and trust me, any criminal wanting to go up against him will get what's coming to them. If it's Sherlock's safety you're after its either this or the woman."

Mycroft sighed. "John would kill us if we picked the woman, wouldn't he?" 

Greg smiled. "It's only for outside the facility. He'll look like himself when he's home." 

"Alright. We'll go with the large lad. I'm not inviting him to dinner like that though. Mummy would either throw a fit or be uncomfortably attracted to her own son." He said with a shiver. 

Greg kissed him and went about ordering it. 

\-----

Sherlock had been going to some sort of clandestine meetings in the facility without John for the past week. John would make tea and wait for him to come back, nervously wondering what the hell they were about. The first time Sherlock came back he slammed doors and refused to talk for hours. The second and third times he slipped into his mind palace and was incommunicado for the remainder of the day. It had John's nerves on the fritz. 

The front door opened and Sherlock walked in, looking tired. John stood and went to put another pot of water on. He switched on the electric kettle and turned around. Sherlock sat on the edge of the couch and looked at his feet. 

"Do you think you'd still care about me if I didn't look like myself?" Sherlock asked in a hushed tone. 

John went to him immediately and knelt at his feet. "What's this all about? You have to tell me. I can see you're hurting." 

"Is that a no?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows knit together. 

"Don't be ridiculous. I care about a lot more than how you look."

Sherlock seemed to relax at that and a weak smile played across his face. "I think I love you." He whispered. 

John got up and wrapped his arms tightly around him. "I love you, too." 

He thought about how amazing it was to fall in love with someone so quickly. He'd only felt like he was in love a few times, and those relationships had always taken a long time to develop. He figured that nothing about he and Sherlock seemed to be normal, and he was just fine with that. 

\-----

A week later, after helping solve another case by running around while Sherlock gave him directions, John fell asleep on the couch in the early hours of the morning. When his arm display went off, signaling his need to get up for the day, he rubbed his eyes and walked grogily to the loo. He pulled up the lid on the toilet and froze. His heart pumped in his chest and he felt suddenly as if he was standing on the top of a very tall building. 

He walked quickly out to the kitchen and checked the exit before speaking. "Who the hell are you?" 

The tall man at the sink turned around and gave him a nervous smile. John studied his features for sign of threat and found none. He settled incrementally and stared into the man's dark eyes. 

"Knew you wouldn't recognise me. How could you?" The man said, East London accent giving John pause. 

He'd known quite a few blokes from Hackney in the army, but none happened to be large black men. And he was large. Quite. 

"I'm sorry, do I know you? Where's Sherlock?" John asked, once again becoming nervous. 

"It's quite lifelike, isn't it?" The man asked, turning to gaze at his reflection in the window. 

John saw him reach for his pocket and quickly had him subdued face down on the floor. The man struggled momentarily and then went slack. 

"This wasn't the best way to go about it." The man said with a laugh. 

"Not sure what 'it' is, mate, but I'd hazard you're right." John grit out. 

Just as he did a knock came to the door and Greg walked cheerfully in. His mirth evaporated as he took in the sight before him. He quickly came over and started yelling. 

"John, get up, let him go!"

"Give me one good reason!" John hissed. 

"You didn't tell him?" Greg asked the man. "Bloody hell, how could you not tell him? You'll give him a damn heart attack, Sherlock!" 

'Sherlock?' John's head was suddenly spinning. 'Sherlock? What in all hell?' 

"John, mate, come back to us." Greg said, snapping his fingers in front of John's face. 

"You utter prick!" John spit. "This is what you meant by not looking like yourself? Is this a bloody robot?" 

John jumped back and stood at the edge of the room. The man, thing, on the floor stood and stretched, looking hang dog and unsure. 

"John, I'm sorry." He said. 

"John, you weren't supposed to find out like this." Greg added. "Sherlock's just a bit stupid, aren't you, Sherlock?" 

"I didn't think through the possibilities of your reactions. I'm not stupid." He said, glaring at Greg. "Just a bit...misguided." 

John hauled back and punched him in the face, immediately regretting it as his hand met with silicone covered metal as opposed to skin and bone. He shook his fist and Sherlock stood to pull an ice pack out of the fridge. He passed it to John, who sat at the kitchen table with a frown. 

Greg set to making John a cup of tea and tried to explain what was going on. "This is the latest technology. I convinced Mycroft to let Sherlock try it out. It's not exactly perfect, but it'll get him out of the flat. He was supposed to talk to you about it." 

Sherlock, tall, fit, muscular, robot Sherlock looked at his feet. 

"It's a humanoid they've been trying out for the armed forces. There are currently fifteen in the field." Greg said, setting the tea in front of John and taking a seat. "This is one of the five models. They've been used for undercover work so far." 

"So they couldn't manage to make one that looked like Sherlock?" John asked as he decided whether or not he'd broken his knuckles. 

"They took a mold, and it's supposed to be on its way to the developers, but this is what we have now." Greg said. 

"Why didn't Mycroft do this before?" John asked. 

Sherlock sat back and rolled his eyes, a strange thing to see on this new body, as it was classically Sherlockian. 

"Like I said, it's barely out of the prototype stage. It has drawbacks. It can't smell or taste, and the fine motor skills are...lacking. It's got a battery life of six hours, then it needs to charge for one. It's less than ideal." Greg replied. 

Sherlock snorted and John agreed with the sentiment. 

"Yeah, well, neither is staying in the facility all the time." John turned to Sherlock, looking finally exasperated instead of angry. "So you'll only be on for six hours at a time?" 

Sherlock shrugged, large shoulders moving up and down. "While I'm out of the flat. I figure I'll stick with the program while I'm here." 

"Oh, so you'll be the you I know when you're at home, but you thought it might be a bit of fun to try out your new body on me without telling me this. You're sleeping on the couch for the next month!" John said. 

"I don't sleep." Sherlock pointed out sheepishly. 

John sneered. "You know what I mean." 

Greg's mobile went off and he stood and gathered his coat. "Sorry, John, I've gotta run." 

"I take it Mycroft's forgiven you." John said. 

"They've moved in together." This version of Sherlock said with a look of disgust. 

Greg flushed and nodded before walking out the door. 

Sherlock turned to John and opened his mouth to speak. 

"No! Not a damn word. I'm too pissed off right now. I'm going to go read and possibly take a nap. Then you're going to take me out to dinner and get me properly smashed." John said, getting up and walking to the bedroom. 

He slammed the door and Sherlock looked at his new hands, turning them over and sighing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a picture of my inspiration for the other Sherlock, yes it's Idris Elba. http://37.media.tumblr.com/b6452403dbdc075211a603de90f31a3c/tumblr_mrc03hQzqN1qgae0ho1_1280.jpg


	19. A Hard One To Explain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go about as well as you'd expect. Which is 'not very'.

John flopped onto the bed and rubbed his eyes. His life was impossible. This whole situation was bloody impossible. How he was supposed to walk around with non-Sherlock and not crack a smile was beyond him. Then again, the same could have been said of Sherlock-Sherlock. It wasn't like his original form gave away anything close to how bizarre he was. There wasn't going to be a missing neon sign. If Sherlock was fine with it, he decided, he should be too. 

With a groan he sat up and looked around the room. He was happy to be in the downstairs bedroom, where he spent every night now, because he didn't have to see the man to get to the shower. He went in through the adjoining door and turned on the hot water. He let the warm water rush over him and tried to clear his mind. Things, he decided, could be much worse. 

He washed slowly, letting the soapy flannel drag against his skin. When he closed his eyes to wet his hair he had a sudden flash of Sherlock's new form pressed beneath his on the floor. Without the fear, it was a different thing completely. He let himself drag the flannel down his body and run his fingers through the wiry hair at the base of his cock. 

He hated himself a little for how incredibly hard he'd got over another man's body. But it wasn't another man, was it? And it wasn't as though he was having sex with another man, he was surely allowed to look. It would be like wanking to Steven Gerrard. No one could blame him. 

He got it done quickly even though, and rinsed off. Wiping away the condensation on the mirror turned out to be a bad idea, as he still looked tired. He frowned at himself and shaved as fast as he could, not being able to wait to have a pint. He really didn't care that it would be a pint with breakfast. He was living in a bloody Sci-fi movie, after all. As he dressed he could hear Sherlock banging around in the kitchen. 

\-----

He should have known that this wasn't the way to tell John about his new body. He was never any good at the should-have-knowns. He liked to think that he decided to go against social convention, that he saw it as useless. The truth was that he didn't see it at all. Sure, from time to time he was in a situation that he knew the rules for and chose not follow them, but that wasn't very often. You were supposed to learn these things in school, he thought. That would be the only reason to stick so many whiny, snotty, loud children in one room. He never learned a thing. 

And now, after being alive for twenty five years (and dead for two), he wanted to know. He wanted to be able to tell when he was about to step on a landmine. He wanted to stop laying them himself. Too bad he couldn't sign up for a manners class. All the ones offered were for girls anyway, and he didn't need to be told to cross his leg at the knee. 

In short, he was doomed. Doomed. 

\-----

John opened the door to find Sherlock, this second version of Sherlock, pulling at a dish rag. He was twisting it in his hands and acting as thought he wanted to rip it in two. He took a few deep breaths and approached him. 

"I've decided against the nap. Can we go get some food?"

Sherlock turned and looked at John with surprise. 

"I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't have done what I did. I don't really understand people, even though I was one for many years, and now that I want to there's no way besides looking on the Internet. I suppose I should have researched this before acting. Perhaps I can get a book on interpersonal relationships that will better equip me for-" Sherlock babbled, head bowed. 

John cut him off by taking his hand. Sherlock looked up, eyebrows so tight it looked like his concentration might be painful. 

"You were an arse. I'm over it. Can we go?"

Sherlock nodded, and a small smile burst onto his face. John nodded back and followed him to the door. They made it the short way to the elevator before either spoke. Once in the enclosed space something had to break. 

"I'm not going to kiss you while you're like...that." John said quickly. 

Sherlock nodded and looked at his feet. 

"I'm not repulsed by it or anything. It's quite...it's...fit. It's not that I wouldn't want to kiss you like that, it's just..." John trailed off as he realised he was ruining his own case. 

"I don't mind. You don't have to." Sherlock said softly. 

And that, in the end, was what broke him. That soft voice telling him he didn't have to, that the person he was so obviously in love with didn't mind being treated like a stranger. 

"Oh, bloody hell." John hissed, before standing in tip toes and pressing his lips to Sherlock's. 

It was strange at first, the feel of the silicone. It wasn't warm like Sherlock's lips usually were, but it wasn't cold. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's back and pulled him closer...then stopped. 

"What's wrong?" John asked, stepping back. 

"I can't feel anything. Not with my lips at least. I forgot. I don't have sense receptors there. There isn't any need for a field operative to feel his lips." Sherlock said, looking quite frustrated. 

"Oh." John said quietly. 

Just as he did the doors opened and Sherlock strode out angrily. John, who was turned on and very confused, stood still in shock. When he finally shook himself out of it Sherlock was gone. 

"You didn't happen to see where he went, did you?" He asked the security guard. 

"Out the front door and off to the left, sir." He replied. 

John walked out the door and looked around the busy street. It was just the right time to escape into a crowd. Business people and children on their way to school clogged the streets. Sherlock, although he had a few inches on most people, had disappeared completely. John turned on his wrist display and pulled up Greg's number. This was going to be a hard one to explain.


	20. Greg, We Have A Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes on search of Sherlock.

"Greg, we have a problem." John said, still looking up and down the street for Sherlock. 

"He's got a gps locater, I'm sending a car. I'll text you his location." Greg said. "And John, don't worry." 

John said his thanks and rang off. Don't worry, yeah, that'd work. He'd just wait around for a car to go find his missing, kind-of robot boyfriend in the middle of London. Nothing to worry about there. Now that he thought about it, Greg didn't really seem worried. He didn't even ask John to tell him what the problem was. Was this something everyone else saw happening before he did? Was this always a possibility? 

His fevered thoughts were cut off as a black sedan pulled up in front of him. The back door opened and Mycroft Holmes himself beckoned him in. He swallowed hard and slipped in beside the tall man, buckled his seat belt and relayed the destination to the driver. Before he was even able to thank her the dividing window was raised and it was just him and the man he least wanted to see. 

"Hello, Mycroft." He said after clearing his throat. 

"I'm not going to scold you, if that's what you're afraid of." Mycroft replied. 

Well, he wasn't, until then. 

"I don't think I'd take a scolding from you very well." John mumbled. 

Mycroft raised one imperious eyebrow and spoke again. "It was almost expected. My brother is quite dramatic, though he'd deny it. I don't expect you to be his keeper." 

John was relieved. As far as he was concerned, he was to blame. He had been the one to suggest that they go out when Sherlock had just got into the new body. He was the one that blew up at the genius earlier that day. He was the one that kissed him. Jesus, no wonder Sherlock ran off. 

"He's going through a lot right now." John said quietly, looking out the window. 

"But for once he's not alone." Mycroft said, straightening his tie. 

The car came to a premature stop as John looked up and Mycroft opened his door. 

"You're not coming?" John asked with trepidation. 

"What makes you think he'd get in a car with me?" Mycroft asked. 

"Point taken." John said. 

Mycroft turned and got out of the car. Before he closed the door John spoke again. 

"And, Mycroft, thank you."

Mycroft turned a bit pink and looked as though the gratitude made him uncomfortable. He did a half aborted salute and shut the door. John smiled a bit, noting how like his brother he could be. At least one thing surprised the man. 

Ten minutes later the sedan pulled up to an abandoned building. John looked down at his wrist display to make sure they were in the right spot. Then he checked again. The divider lowered and the driver looked at him in the mirror. 

"I'll wait here, sir." The woman said with a kind smile. 

John nodded solemnly and got from the car. Though it was early in the day this part of town was so broken and deserted that John felt somewhere in his gut that he should be heading home. Instead he squared his shoulders and walked through the side door. 

Well, door frame. The door was missing, along with most of the windows. The ground was muddy and looked to be holding at least ten different forms of carcinogens, oily water seeped through the walls and seemed almost otherworldly. The roof was missing in places and the openings let through a small amount of light, just enough to dampen the mood further. Damp. That was the word for it. 

John checked his wrist display once again and looked around. He saw a large form on the ground at the edge of the next room. He could just make out the large hands and wide shoulders. It made him rather uneasy. 

"Sherlock?" He asked, voice bouncing strangely off the walls. 

The form grew taller before it turned and John had a second to remember what being on a raid felt like; the acute uncertainty, the knife's edge. 

"John." The man said. 

John breathed deeply and walked into the second room. Sherlock was not quite as upset as he'd expected him to look. 

"Sherlock, you can't run off like that. What if you'd run out of battery life?" He said. 

Sherlock looked confused. "I'd take one of my brother's cars home. The drivers have all been informed of my 'condition' and paid handsomely to keep it to themselves." 

John breathed to steel himself and took another approach. 

"I was worried. We were supposed to go to lunch together and you just left me. And now you're, what, collecting mud?" He asked, gesturing to the six or seven baggies in Sherlock's hands. 

"Soil samples. This area has some of the most interesting compounds due to the defunct refineries that dot the landscape." Sherlock replied. 

John crossed his arms and frowned. 

Sherlock let his head fall. "I'm sorry. I got overwhelmed." 

"Better." John said. "Now, can we go for lunch?" 

Sherlock nodded and followed him out to the car. The driver smiled as soon as they got in and Sherlock smiled back. 

"Nice to see you out and about, Mr Holmes. Although I don't think it's fair to keep your man waiting." She said. 

"I'll take that under consideration. Angelo's, if you please." Sherlock said.   
The divider went up and the car pulled out into the street. John sat back and looked at Sherlock who was writing with a marker on the sample bags. After a moment Sherlock glanced up. 

"Was I the last one to see the new body?" John asked. 

Sherlock looked unsure of what he should disclose for a moment before he spoke. "I had to try it on outside the facility. I didn't want you to know about it until I'd decided whether or not I was going to keep it." 

"Why would I care?" John asked, eyebrows raised in confusion. 

Sherlock looked as if he didn't understand the question. "Well, this is what you want, isn't it? Someone you can go out with, someone closer to human. If I tried it out and didn't like it, and then took it away from you...it seemed a bit not good." 

John didn't quite know what to think of that. The fact that Sherlock thought that John cared about Sherlock being able to go outside the facility for his own selfish reasons made him a little uneasy. 

"I wouldn't want you to keep it if you didn't like it. I don't care if we get to go out together." He said calmly. 

"Oh." Sherlock replied. 

John shook his head and looked out the window. They made the rest of the drive in silence, halfway between a comfortable and tense. Partway through their fingers intertwined. 

When they got to their destination Sherlock told the driver they would be an hour and a half and walked John into the small restaurant. They were seated by the window and a tall man with a pony tail brought them menus and a small candle for the table. Once the man had left Sherlock spoke to John in a conspiratory manner. 

"I solved a case for him a while back."

"Really?" John asked, eyes lighting up. 

"Yeah. He was in on a murder charge."

"So you cleared his name?" John asked. 

"Cleared it a bit. I proved he was halfway across town housebreaking when the murder took place. He went to jail, but the sentence was greatly reduced." Sherlock said. 

"Brilliant." John said. "Is it strange that he doesn't recognise you?" 

"I suppose. I did forget to bring money for lunch. He never made me pay."

"We'll have your brother treat us." John said with a wink. "Are you going to have anything?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "I'd have to empty my stomach afterwards, and it's not like I can taste anything." 

John made a disgusted face and Sherlock laughed. 

"The food wouldn't be partway digested. It wouldn't stink or anything." He said with a grin. 

"What would you do? Just open up your chest or something?" John asked with a grimace. 

"See, you're not so slow after all." Sherlock replied. 

"Gee, thanks." John said sarcastically. 

Sherlock simply chuckled and looked at his menu.


End file.
